


(Love Will See Us Through These) Dark Days

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blood and Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: A century ago, the United Realms of Pomem had been a land of peace, prosperity, and magic. Until war tore the land apart, leaving behind cruel leaders and even crueler laws regarding the use of magic. And each year, the youth of each realm are subjected to a fight to the death, both for entertainment and to weed out anyone capable of wielding magic. In the 99th Magic Games, past victors Emma Nolan and Killian Jones find themselves serving as mentors, while Alice Gothel and Robyn West end up representing their realm. Everyone has secrets; everyone has something to lose. Who will win? Who will die? Just don’t forget: all magic comes with a price.
Relationships: Alice | Tilly & Wishverse Captain Hook | Detective Rogers, Alice | Tilly/Robin | Margot, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 59
Kudos: 46
Collections: The Magic Games





	1. Oh how I've dreaded this god forsaken day

**Author's Note:**

> In case this sounds sort of familiar, this is a reworking of [Once Upon A Time in Panem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421394/chapters/7494887), which I've done as part of the Captain Swan Rewrite-A-Thon. Thanks to the mod crew for putting on this awesome event! And to optomisticgirl for being the best beta in the history of betas.
> 
> A note before you read: in this story, Alice is Killian's daughter with Eloise. But the circumstances surrounding her conception are NOT what they were in the show; while Gothel isn't exactly a great person, she's not the main villain and every effort has been taken to illustrate consent. But if the Knightrook relationship isn't your thing, it might be best to pass this one over. Also, as it was inspired by The Hunger Games, there is some mild violence.
> 
> Story title comes from "Dark Days" by the Punch Brothers; first chapter title is from "Run Daddy Run" by Miranda Lambert + Pistol Annies

Alice fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. It was a nervous habit and she knew what her mother would say about it—what she was probably trying to say telepathically from her seat on the stage. But Alice had never mastered the cool composure of Eloise; her emotions tended to carry her off with them. 

But even her mum had to have some nerves today. It was the Reaping for the annual Magic Games, and at 16—and the daughter of Sherwood’s only past Victor—she knew the odds weren’t in her favor. Statistically, she didn’t have a higher or lower chance of her name being drawn than any other 16-year-old, but Olympus loved a good story, and one they could never resist was seeing how a Victor’s child fared in the Games. 

It was why her mother never really wanted to have her. Not generally something a parent told a child, but it’s not like there was anything all that normal about their relationship anyways. 

So she continued to tug nervously on her skirt, her mother’s thoughts be damned. 

“Welcome, welcome all,” announced the district escort from Olympus, Victoria Tremaine. She’d been in that role for years but was seemingly ageless; Olympus had some skilled plastic surgeons, apparently. “Thank you for joining me today at the Selection for the 99th Annual Magic Games.” As if they had a choice: attendance was mandatory for everyone, no matter how young or old. Even the textile factories were shut down from their normal ‘round-the-clock grind; the air was eerily quiet without their constant hum. “Before we get to the main event, allow me to present a brief program on the history of the Games, so we can reflect on where we’ve been, and see just how far we’ve come.”

Alice sighed and shifted her weight impatiently; it was the same video every year—the same propaganda.

“ _ Once upon a time, the realms of magic were at peace, and a harmonious existence was enjoyed by all _ ,” the narration told. “ _ It was so idyllic that they decided to join as one so as to better share their prosperity _ .”

She probably had it memorized at this point.

“ _ And so the most skilled magic users in each realm got together and wove the strongest spell anyone had ever seen, joining the worlds in one land: the United Realms of Pomem, from the Latin for apple—representing their hopes to share knowledge and for a fruitful future _ .” 

Alice shivered; she was always leery of apples.

“ _ There was a land without magic, though, which had landed in the middle of Neverland, one of the most magical. This was decided to be the capital of this new world, and it was given a name that all the realms knew as mythical: Olympus. _

“ _ For years, Pomem flourished, sharing ideas and trade and becoming one of the most technologically advanced civilizations in history. Eventually, it became hard to tell where the magic stopped and science began _ .”

And this was where the video took a turn for the worse, as far as Alice was concerned.

“ _ Those with magic grew jealous of the advancing technology, despite the fact that it put everyone on equal footing. They preferred to be seen as higher than their peers, and more skilled; they didn’t want to lose their power. What once had brought people together was now a point of division _ .”

Oh, someone was definitely clamoring for power, Alice knew; but it certainly had not been magic-users.

“ _ Harsh penalties were put in place for anyone caught practicing or using magic—a fair law— _ ” Alice couldn’t suppress her snort of derision “ _ —which many didn’t appreciate, even if they didn’t possess it themselves. Tensions built, and the ungrateful citizens of the realms revolted. _ ”

_ I would have, too _ , Alice thought; she didn’t dare voice that opinion out loud, though—not when the armor-plated Black Knights from Olympus were standing guard over the proceedings. 

“ _ Four leaders emerged in the rebellion: sorceresses known as the Wicked Witch of the West, the Evil Queen of the East, the Guardian in the North, and the Savior in the South. They led the insurrectionists against Olympus _ .” The grainy image of four women in old-fashioned cloaks, standing together in a defensive pose, was the only part of this that Alice even sort of enjoyed. She always wanted to know more about them, but any record of who they were outside of the rebellion had been destroyed. 

“ _ But they didn’t stand a chance. Olympus knew something they didn’t: how to destroy magic. Through their advanced technology and incredible force, Olympus obliterated the insurgents, and nearly rid the realm of the offending sorcery. Completely destroyed was the realm of Wonderland, which had been another stronghold of magic _ .”

That part always bothered Alice the most—as if genocide wasn’t enough, the fact that an entire realm had been destroyed...god. There was an image of the annihilated ruins on the projection—burning shrubbery, charred homes, and what she could only imagine had been plants of a fantastical nature reduced to ashes. What a waste.

“ _ So, to make sure the citizens remembered their place and that magic never gained power again, Olympus took two known magic users from each realm and locked them into an arena in the depths of Neverland, forcing them to fight to the death. The inherent magic in the land made it all the easier to determine who was the most powerful—and ensure they couldn’t unleash their sorcery on the world again. The lone Victor was granted immunity, and was rendered safe for the world by wearing a computerized cuff that blocked their use of magic _ .”

That part always hit too close to home; Alice glared at the bracelet her mother had to wear.

“ _ To ensure the continued suppression of magic, the Magic Games continue each year, with each of the realms—Phrygia, Oz, Arendelle, Agrabah, Sherwood, Atlantica, Erebor, Misthaven, DunBroch, and Stormhold— _ ” the scenic views of each that flashed overhead were definitely altered; she’d never seen a cotton field in Sherwood look so photogenic “ _ —required to send two tributes each from their young people. Only one can emerge victorious—and those with magic rarely survive _ .

“ _ Now, Pomem is once more that land of expanding knowledge and growing prosperity, with no magic to be seen. We continue the games to ensure our lasting peace. Now, let the Reaping begin, and remember: All Magic Comes With A Price _ .” The crest of Olympus—an apple hanging off a branch—appeared onscreen, along with the strains of the anthem, and then faded away. A few government officials clapped, most enthusiastically being Tremaine, who took the mic again.

“Let’s not drag this out any longer, shall we? Let the Reaping for the 99th Magic Games commence!” How she could be so cheery when she was essentially sentencing children to death was something Alice couldn’t comprehend. 

The woman placed her well-manicured hand in the bowl that held the name of all the youth of the realm, everyone from age 12 to 18. Everyone around Alice joined in her restlessness; they all had their names in there five times—once for every year since they became “eligible” (as if it was some kind of honor—ugh). 

Carefully, Tremaine pulled out a slip and made a production of opening it. Alice held her breath. 

“Our first tribute is...Robyn West.”

“No,” Alice gasped under her breath, and her eyes darted around to find the other girl. Robyn was her classmate, though they weren’t all that close. The thing was: she wanted to be close with her—had for ages—but never worked up the nerve. The butterflies she felt whenever she looked at the strawberry blonde girl were dancing a sad flutter in her stomach as she watched the other girl confidently march up to the stage. God, that sucked. 

“Thank you, Miss West,” Victoria said once she’d reached the podium. “And now for our second tribute...Nicholas Zimmer.”

Okay, that was worse; it may not have been her name called, but she felt no relief. Nicholas was only 12, and he and his twin sister were probably the closest thing she had to friends—at least, they were the only ones to take pity on the weird girl who lived practically alone in Victor’s Village. Well-socialized, she was not. That, and she knew the family was struggling—she could see his mother breaking down in tears as he shyly stepped forward to head up. 

No, she wasn’t okay with that at all. But there was only one thing she could do about it.

Good thing everyone already thought she was crazy, because what she did next was pure insanity. 

Steeling her nerves, she squeezed her hands into fists, tamping down the sparks of magic that were trying to escape. Then she stepped into the aisle between everyone. 

“I volunteer!” she shouted. Gasps surrounded her, and Nicholas froze in his spot. 

She jogged up to him, placed her hand on his shoulder, and gave him a look that she hoped told him it was okay. Then she faced Tremaine and said again, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Behind the escort, her mother was giving a stern look that she couldn’t exactly read. But Victoria carried on. “Well, this is quite the surprise! Come on up, then, and tell us your name.”

Before her mind could catch up with what she’d just done, she ran up the steps to the microphone. “I’m Alice; Alice...Gothel.”

“Why, you must be Eloise’s daughter!” Tremaine exclaimed. “How wonderful!” That wasn’t the word Alice would have chosen.

In no time at all, Alice was being escorted off the stage and into the city hall behind them. She threw a glance toward Robyn as they entered the building, only to find the other girl nearly gaping at her. Maybe she would get a chance to tell her how she felt after all. Not that it would do much good. 

Neither of them had great chances of getting out of this alive, coming from a poor realm like Sherwood. But Alice was the daughter of not one, but two victors; that had to count for something, right?

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Emma Nolan could hear her mother gasping from downstairs. 

“David! Look at that—she volunteered to save that boy! No one ever does that!” 

“I’m sitting right next to you, Snow.” 

“I know, but—oh my god, isn’t that Eloise’s daughter?”

“Damn, I think it is.”

God, it was like they’d never seen a Reaping before, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. Not that anyone’s lives were free of the annual anguish, but her family in particular was extra intimate with the affair. 

Snow Nolan and her husband, David—who were victors in back-to-back years, and were basically local royalty—had long served as Misthaven’s mentors, with one main exception: the year their daughter, Emma, was reaped (one of their former mentees, Graham Humbert, had the honor that year).

Which made her wonder—why would the child of a victor who hadn’t been selected enter the Games voluntarily? If she somehow managed to escape that fate, why go chasing it? She didn’t need Henry seeing stuff like that; his odds were terrible enough as it was. At least he was still only 11.

God, even the thought of that made her magic prick at her fingertips. She took a few calming breaths until it subsided; few knew about it, least of all Olympus, and she needed to keep it that way if she was going to have any success this year.

Her mother had been chosen as Mayor of Misthaven a few months ago, which was how Emma found herself rushing to pack a suitcase in anticipation of her first year as a mentor, alongside Graham, who had come to be one of her closest friends in the ensuing years. To the rest of the world, they were more than that—as far as Olympus and its citizens were concerned, Emma and Graham were True Loves, capital letters and all, just like her parents, living happily with their son, Henry. 

And she did love Graham, but more as a brother than a lover, and she knew he felt the same toward her. Their shared experiences in the Games brought them together as friends and Henry had united them as parents, but she had long since vowed to never fall in love again; not after what happened with Neal.

“Mom, hurry up! Dad’s already packed. You don’t want to be late!” Henry shouted from downstairs. Truthfully, she was supposed to be watching the other realms’ Reapings before attending Misthaven’s, but she wouldn’t be her if she wasn’t procrastinating. It was as good an excuse as any to avoid the inevitable crowd shots of weeping parents and terrified kids. 

Henry apparently gave up waiting and just ran into her room. Despite Graham not being his biological father, he looked more like Graham’s son than Emma’s, with their shared dark, messy hair; she’d hoped Henry would inherit her green eyes, but they were definitely Neal’s deep brown. He knew the truth about his father, but Graham was as much his parent as Emma was. 

“I’m almost done,” Emma replied, zipping up her bag. “Just missing one thing: a hug.” She walked over to her son and wrapped him tight. “I’m going to miss you, kid.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Mom. Are you sure you have to go?”

“You know I don’t have a choice, Henry; it’s my turn,” she answered; there were only a handful of other Victors in their realm, but they had all done the mentor thing before her parents. “Plus, I think your grandparents are looking forward to having you to themselves for a few weeks.” Henry laughed at that, but hugged just a bit tighter. “I love you, Henry.” 

“Love you, too.”

Graham poked his head into the room. “Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Shall we, then?”

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

From his home in Atlantica, Killian Jones, victor of the 82nd Magic Games, watched the events in Sherwood as they were broadcast. He was about to make his way to his own town square for their Reaping, and from there would head with this year’s tributes to Olympus as one of their mentors.

He was nursing his glass of rum with extra careful attention this year. The Reaping always had a way of bringing up unpleasant memories—being reaped twice will do that to a man—but it’d gotten worse each of the past few. The rum didn’t really help, but he supposed it didn’t hurt either. It wouldn’t change the outcome, but he’d gotten so used to the vice over the years that it was something of a comfort—especially given that his only true source of comfort was presently out of reach. 

The same familiar churning in his gut began to coil as he watched the mouthpiece from Olympus stick her fingers in that bowl. The image was nearly identical to the one 23 years ago, when his 12-year-old self was first called up. That one was clearer in his memory than the one six years later, because of what followed.

But he shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory; as much as it still hurt, it was in the past. He turned his focus back on the television, and let out a deep breath when the first name was called, even if it was slightly familiar. It wasn’t the one he was most concerned with.

It was the same with the second name, and he finished his drink. He stood to start to make his way out, but then an all-too-familiar voice rang out from the television, and that memory that had threatened to take over played through his head without restraint. 

“I volunteer!” the voice shouted, and its echo rang out in his head—his brother’s voice, all those years ago.

He watched in horror as the blonde girl from Sherwood took the boy’s place, just like Liam had taken his. No—no, this couldn’t be happening, not again. Gods, he couldn’t watch. 

“I’m Alice; Alice...Gothel,” the girl said. 

(“I’m Liam Jones,” the memory echoed.)

In a weird way, being chosen again for—and then somehow winning—the games when he was 18 had ended up giving him a reason to go on, instead of the aimless drift he’d been on in those intervening years. But in one moment—one more absurd display of nobility and bravery—that was all at risk of crumbling again, and spectacularly so.

With a primal yell, he punched his tv with his hook, shattering the screen and cutting his clothing, but that was the least of his cares. 

The Games had already taken his hand, his love, and his brother. 

They weren’t taking his daughter, too. 


	2. Come away little lamb, come away to the slaughter / To the one appointed to see this through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Come Away to the Water" by Maroon 5 f/Rozzi Crane [all chapter titles, just like the story title, will come from the Hunger Games soundtrack]
> 
> This chapter opens with the first of several flashbacks; please don't hate me too much.

**Twenty-three years ago**

The falling rain should have been sign enough of what was to come. Nothing good happened on dreary, drizzly days—not since Mama had passed, at least. But all Killian was really concerned with was the way it was working its way through his threadbare jacket as he stood and shivered in the town square with his classmates. 

He was nervous, too—who wouldn’t be at their first Reaping?

Liam had tried to calm him that morning, as he attempted to smooth down the cowlick on the crown of Killian’s head. “You’re only 12, so your name is only in there once. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“What about you, though?” At 18, Liam’s name was in there seven times.

“My odds are still good; don’t worry, little brother.”

“Younger,” Killian muttered under his breath.

His brother’s words, right as they were, did little to calm him. The Games had a way of making the worst things happen. 

Killian’s heart rate picked up when the escort from Olympus reached into the bowl containing everyone’s names. The name he read out wasn’t familiar, thank goodness, and a guy from farther back in the crowd shuffled his way forward. His head was hung low; even if Atlantica was the reigning champion of the Games, and was generally considered to be a realm who did well in them, it didn’t mean that being Reaped was still anything less than a death sentence.

The kid was guided to the back of the stage, standing by last year’s champion, Milah Cassidy, and the escort turned his attention back to the bowl. Killian began to breathe deeply when he took out the next slip.

And then Killian’s heart stopped altogether.

“Killian Jones.”

No. No—it couldn’t be. Liam told him—his chances were so low—how? Just, how?

But it seemed as though his fate had been chosen for him, like always; no sense fighting it now. The crowd of kids his age began to part around him, and he straightened his spine and began to cross the short distance to the stage. But then something even worse happened.

“I volunteer!” Killian turned and stared at the shouting voice, to see Liam struggling against Black Knights who were holding him back. “I volunteer as tribute.”

He was once more stunned, speechless, and frozen in spot, as the guards let Liam go and he began to come to the front. Calm and noble—that’s how Liam always was.

But not Killian. His own fate he could have dealt with—but not Liam’s. As soon as his brain caught up with everything, he ran at his brother, who barely was able to brace himself for the impact of a gangly preteen slamming into him.

“Liam, no—you can’t; you  _ can’t _ !” Killian cried in his ear; Liam would probably be just fine without him, but Killian—he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—

“It’s alright, brother,” Liam whispered, then somehow pried Killian’s arms off of him. Killian was too shocked to try to follow. He was vaguely aware of the Black Knights coming to stand on either side, but his gaze was transfixed on Liam as he took the stage.

“I’m Liam Jones,” he said, when asked for his name.

“Oh, then I bet that was your brother, wasn’t it?” the smarmy escort had said.

“Aye,” he nodded solemnly. The rest of the scene was blurred by Killian’s own tears.

He was vaguely aware, however, of being escorted by the soldiers into the city hall, where tributes were able to make their goodbyes. Killian was left in front of a door, and even though time was probably limited, it took a full minute for him to work up the nerve to open it.

In the small room, Liam was pacing, head down in thought—like he often was when trying to figure out how to make their last bit of food stretch enough for the two of them until they could afford more, or how to repair their roof, or one of the many problems that had been shoved onto his shoulders since Mama died and their father left.

He looked up when the door opened, though, and ran to Killian, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Liam, how could you?” Killian sobbed. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you!” 

“Shh, you’ll be fine.”

“But what will I do without you?”

“You’ll survive; you always have and you always will.”

For what seemed like eternity, Killian sobbed into his brother’s shoulder. It was great that Liam was so confident, but he certainly wasn’t. “Why did you do it?” he finally asked through hiccups.

Liam took a deep breath. “Remember what I’ve always told you: that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. This is what I want.”

“You want to die?” he snapped back.

“No, little brother—I want you to live.”

There was nothing more Killian could say to that, so they just held each other tight until their time was up.

“You’ll try to win, though, right?” Killian asked.

“Of course I will.”

Sniffling, Killian pulled off the chain that hung around his neck. “Here—take Mama’s ring, for protection.”

Liam took the antique—one of the few things they had left from their mother—and slipped it around his own neck. “I feel safer already,” he said, though Killian was old enough to know it was an empty platitude.

“I love you, Liam.”

“I love you too, little brother.”

Black Knights arrived to escort Liam to Olympus, and it took every ounce of reserve in Killian’s lanky body to not cling to him; but he followed as long as he could, and watched as Liam walked down the long hallway to the train depot, then out of sight.

He managed to hold it together until then, but the door leading outside had barely closed before Killian collapsed on a bench, sobbing again. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do? He had no family, no money...honestly, Liam should have just let him go and freed himself from the burden of a little brother.

“Is this seat taken?” An older voice startled Killian; he looked up, blinking through his tears, to see a vaguely familiar man standing over him.

“N-no; go ahead,” he stammered, then wiped his nose with his wet jacket.

The man sat down next to him and didn’t say anything for a bit; not until Killian had calmed down (which he’d really only done because he had company). But eventually, he spoke up. “It’s Killian, right?”

“Aye, sir.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Nemo.”

Politely, Killian took it, and the name jogged his memory: Nemo was a past Victor, who he thought usually served as a mentor. “Aren’t you supposed to be going to Olympus?” he asked.

Nemo gave him a half smile, and there was sadness in his eyes. “Not this year. And it seems that you aren’t, either.”

“No,” Killian agreed in a small voice. 

“Forgive me if this is forward,” Nemo continued, “but I couldn’t help but notice your parents weren’t around today. They’re gone, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, seeing as neither of us have anywhere to be or anyone to be with, could I invite you to stay at my home for the duration of the games?”

Killian blinked; a Victor—who didn’t even know him—had just invited him to stay with him? “Why?” was all he could say.

Nemo chuckled. “I live alone in that big house, and I could use some company. Just until your brother gets back, of course.”

They both knew that promise was slightly hollow, and while pride and propriety should have insisted that Killian turn down the offer, he also hated the idea of spending the next few weeks (and however much after) on his own. “I...okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Nemo grinned, and stood; Killian wiped his face again and followed. “So, what’s your favorite food, m’boy?”

Looking back, there was no way Killian would have survived those weeks without Nemo. He made sure he had food; made sure he got his schoolwork done; and was there by his side each night when they had to watch the recap of the day’s events in Neverland. Nemo was the one who eased his fears on the first day, and all through the first week of the Games, as Liam managed to get into the top five; and Nemo was the one who held Killian as he watched Liam’s slow, painful, lonely death after a brush with the dreamshade plant.

Nemo was also there on the rainy day that the Black Knights turned over custody of Liam’s body to Killian when it came off the train.

“You can stay with me as long as you need, Killian,” Nemo had said solemnly after they buried Liam. Killian didn’t answer—didn’t even acknowledge the statement—he just...went with him. It was the closest thing he had to home anymore.

And he didn’t leave until the next time his name was drawn, six years later.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Present**

Every ounce of self restraint that Killian possessed was in use as he stood on the other side of the door—and had been in use for the past few days, ever since the Reaping. His tributes were probably terrified of him, or at the very least worried for their lives (more than they already were), with his cool aloofness on the train journey to Olympus, even if Ariel, his co-mentor, assured them otherwise. 

He’d just been trying to rein his raging emotions long enough to get here. 

But now no one was answering his polite knock, or the buzz of the door chime on the electronic keypad outside, though he knew they were in there—tributes weren’t given free run of the castle that served as home base for the Games, and it wasn’t quite time for them to get ready for the parade. So why wasn’t he getting a reply from the Sherwood quarters?

Losing his patience, he banged on the door instead. That should get their attention. 

Finally, he heard steps approach the door, and saw the green light on the peephole that let him know he was being watched. The heavy bolt unlatched, but it somehow sounded reluctant and unhappy—much like the reception he knew he’d get from the person on the other side. 

“What are you doing here?” Eloise asked, annoyed, giving him a stern look with a hand on her hip. 

“Where is she?”

“Getting ready.” Her tone was aggravatingly nonchalant, and had been as long as he’d known her. 

“No, she’s not; don’t bloody lie to me. Where’s—“

“Papa?”

In the room beyond, Alice was standing and staring at him, still in the dress she’d been wearing at the Reaping. He knew Olympus’s stylists would doll her up and make her fit their standard of beauty, but he took a long moment—hopefully not the last—to memorize how she looked now: curly blonde hair framing her face, wide-eyed innocence in her blue eyes, and wrinkles in her skirt from where she’d been fidgeting with it. 

“Alice,” he said on a breath, then dodged around Eloise to bring her into his arms. She wrapped herself tight around him as he hugged her close, cradling the back of her head like he had when she was a babe. 

God, would he ever get to do this again?

He blinked back the tears pricking the corner of his eyes and continued to hold on until she said, in a small voice, “Papa, I’m so sorry.”

Sighing, he stepped back, but still held onto her shoulder. “Starfish, what the bloody hell were you thinking? You know what all this is like.”

“I know, but...I couldn’t let him go, Papa,” she said, sniffling a bit. “It’s like what Uncle Liam did. Nicholas...he’s too young; his mother needs him. And I...well, I…”

“If you think for one second that no one needs you, there are two people here who can tell you that you’re sorely wrong,” he refuted, brushing a falling tear from her cheek with his thumb, while mentally cursing the fact that she’d somehow inherited his brother’s bloody noble streak. “Alice, if I lost you, I…” gods, he couldn’t even voice it. He just pulled her back into his embrace, vaguely aware of the tears soaking his shirt (and not caring one bit).

He felt an electric charge on his back, where she was gripping his shirt. “Breathe, darling; breathe.” The last thing they needed was her magic setting itself loose and making her an easy target. He’d seen her do some amazing things with it, but now wasn’t the time. 

“Uh, am I missing something here?” another young voice asked; over Alice’s head, he could see that the other tribute had joined them; she looked to be about Alice’s age, and also incredibly confused.

“This is Killian Jones,” Eloise introduced. “He’s the mentor from Atlantica.”

“Yeah, I know that,” the girl replied. “My mom always swoons over him. But why is he here? And...doing that?”

“Because—” Eloise started, but Alice interrupted. 

“Because he’s my father,” she explained, stepping away. “And you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

The other girl gaped for a long moment, but then closed her mouth and nodded. “Wow; these Victor families are full of drama, huh?”

“Something like that,” Eloise muttered. That was all they needed to say for now. “Now, is that the only reason you came here, or is something else on your mind?”

It was a good thing they’d never actually been in a relationship, because it would have ended in spectacular fashion. “Actually, yes. I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure out just how I was going to be able to focus on protecting the tributes in my charge, when the one I’m the most worried about is here.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” she threw back. 

In all honesty, he didn’t; there was a reason Alice spent so much time with him. Letting that on would only make things worse, though. “Let’s be frank, Eloise: you don’t exactly have the best resources here. But if anyone were to catch onto me helping you, we’d be found out.”

“Oh, like that even matters anymore. Look at where we are, Jones; it’s past time to be worrying about sordid secrets.”

She had a point there. They’d only kept Alice’s paternity a secret to keep her out of the Games; so much for that. 

“But,” she continued, “if you want to form an alliance, I don’t think we’d be opposed.”

He couldn’t handle how calm she was about this. “I can suggest it to my tributes and hope they take it, but you know I can’t force it. I’ll do my best, though.”

“See that you do.”

He couldn’t hold back the roll of his eyes this time, but instead of picking another fight, he turned back to Alice. “I’ll try to find you again before you leave here; I promise,” he told her, then kissed her forehead. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Papa,” she said, and threw herself back at him. He let her hold on as long as she wanted—until Eloise said it was time to go. 

He just gave Alice another kiss on the cheek, then left the apartment; he didn’t want to see the cool indifference on Eloise’s face anymore. 

Letting the door slam behind him, he crossed the hallway to the elevator, punched the button for the ground floor, and as the door closed, leaned against the back wall and stared at his angry reflection in it. 

If anything happened to Alice—anything—her blood would be on Eloise’s hands. And there would be next to nothing he could do about it. 

He hated— _ hated _ —that so little of his life was under his control. It hadn’t taken him by surprise—he grew up with Nemo, after all—but he still loathed the hold Olympus had on him.

At least he could get a drink; the bar in the reception area would be open downstairs. Perhaps he could get one (or a few) in him before he had to make nice with anyone else. He wasn’t even in the mood for another Victor right now, even though that’s where he’d most likely find sympathy. 

So, of course, that’s when the elevator slowed a few floors too soon. He groaned. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Emma was expecting an empty elevator when she rang for it, assuming she was the only one crazy enough to be heading down for parade stuff already. She could tell her tributes weren’t enthused with her inexperience and hoped that she could reassure them by arriving early. (Or, at the very least, shake off her own nerves.)

She was not anticipating running into a brooding Killian Jones. 

It took her aback at first—everyone knew who he was, Victor and citizen alike: the only person to survive being reaped twice. But seeing him up close in person was a bit of a shock. And honestly, he was even more attractive than he looked on screen, with his dark, tousled hair, neatly trimmed scruff, and bright blue eyes. 

Eyes that were now shooting daggers at her. “Are you hopping on or not?” he barked. 

Emma jumped, then scurried on; thankfully, he was headed down, too. The responsible part of her yelled that this would be a great networking opportunity, but the tense clench of his jaw and furrow of his brow told her not to say anything. The games hadn't even started; what was he already angry about? (Other than, you know, the entire concept. But they weren’t here to change the world.)

“Can I help you?” he growled, giving her a side-eyed glare; she jolted again at the realization she’d been gawking. 

“Sorry; it’s just...you're Killian Jones.”

He smirked back at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes—it looked almost rehearsed. “It’s always nice to make an impression.”

“I’m Emma; Emma—”

“—Nolan. I know.”

She just nodded; given how little time she’d spent in Olympus, she had no idea how well-known she was or was not.

“I also know that your mother taught you better than to stare at people.”

Wow, he was definitely in a mood, and it was making her bristle. “Yeah; she also taught me not to be a jerk to people you’ve just met. Didn’t yours?”

She regretted the words as soon as she said them; it was common knowledge that his parents were long gone. Emma didn’t exactly go seeking knowledge about fellow Victors, but when watching the games was mandatory, you picked up stuff along the way, even if he’d won several years before her. 

Briefly, fire gleamed in his eyes, sending a chill up her spine; the light glinting off the hook at the end of his left arm didn’t help. But then it dulled to something closer to resignation. 

“How did your parents do it?” he asked quietly.

“How did they do what?”

“How did they watch their only child march into the arena, knowing full well what it’s like in there, and that there was an incredibly high chance they’d never see you again?”

She swallowed; he definitely knew who she was, then. Where the hell had that question come from, though?

“I have no idea,” she answered quietly. Because she really didn’t—she hadn’t asked and she didn’t want to know. And the thought of ever having to do that was both impossible to imagine and her worst nightmare. 

He huffed and stared at the floor, shoulders slumped. It looked like he wanted to say something, but then a ding sounded as the elevator stopped. 

Killian pushed off the wall, leading with his hips, then took a few swaggering steps out of the lift. She started to follow, but then he turned back, still looking at the ground. 

“As you’re new, I should probably give you some advice,” he said. “It’s this: Don’t fuck up.”

And without another word, he headed off toward the bar. 

What the hell had that been?

Her magic started to lick at her edges in response to her elevated heart rate; she did her best to squeeze it back before leaving the elevator. 

But she was still mentally scratching her head when she reached the staging hallway for the parade; a line of chariots, each pulled by two sleek, white horses, was waiting for the tributes, though it would still be a while until the kids were done with the stylists and prep teams. Emma was never much for fashion, but was always curious to see what Olympus came up with—and was praying it wasn’t anything as bad as what she’d had to wear. Bark was not meant to be worn as a garment. 

Graham was already by their chariot, brushing one of the horses; they were the only ones there so far. “Hey,” she said casually as she walked up behind him, then looked for another brush so she could take care of the other steed. Nervousness was seeping back in and she needed something to do with her hands, lest an involuntary shower of sparks fall from them. 

He turned abruptly and pulled her close with his free arm. “Hello, darling,” he said softly, then pressed a kiss to her lips. She stiffened at first and almost recoiled until she remembered: everyone thought they were madly in love. And even if they didn’t have an audience, they knew better than to assume that no one was watching; the only place in the castle without cameras was each realm’s quarters. 

If she was being honest, that was a big part of why she’d avoided Olympus, almost as much as Henry was. Emma was not a talented actor; thank goodness Graham was. 

He at least gave her an apologetic look when he pulled back, then waved in the direction of the extra grooming tools. “Are the kids in good hands?” he asked as he went back to work.

“Good enough,” Emma shrugged, giving the other horse a gentle sweep of the brush. “I guess we’ll see in a bit. When do the other mentors show up?”

“Soonish,” he replied. After Emma’s games—which were only a couple years after his own victory—Graham had traded off mentoring with David every so often, so he wasn’t completely new; at least one of them had some idea of what they were supposed to do. 

“And then we try to make friends?”

“I suppose.” He peered at her over the neck of the horse; she averted his gaze by focusing on the one in front of her. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she lied, but she didn’t need to look up to know he was giving her a look of disbelief. “It’s just...is everyone like Killian Jones?”

“In what way?”

“I just met him on the elevator and he was...well, he was kind of a dick. I know not everyone is going to be how they seem from afar, but I thought he was supposed to be some charming ladykiller.”

“He wasn’t?”

“No; he was surly and told me not to, and I quote, ‘fuck up’.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Graham deftly dodged the brush she threw at him, laughing.

“Calm down; it’ll be fine,” he assured her, ducking around the horses to stand by her. “I haven’t spent much time with Jones, but he plays fair—I know that. So don’t let him get in your head. Let’s focus on getting through tonight first; alright?” He grabbed her hands and squeezed comfortingly; there was a bit of static at his touch, and she realized he was helping tamp down her magic—again. Fuck, this was gonna be hard.

“Alright,” she sighed, but Killian had really just been voicing her own fears. It wasn’t that easy to shake them. 

“So, were his eyes as blue as everyone says?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Prettier than mine?”

“Eh, different kind of blue.”

He placed a hand on his chest and gasped in mock offense. So she tickled his side in response. Even if they weren’t romantically involved, he was still her best friend, and she was glad he was here with her. 

(But she wasn’t going to tell him the other thing she was thinking about: just how good it looked when Killian walked away. He might be an ass, but damn did he have one.)

They went back to brushing the already-gleaming coats of the horses, and Graham introduced her to some of the other mentors as they trickled in, even if she already had the general idea of who they were: Belle and Archie from Arendelle; Jasmine and Cyrus from Agrabah; Mulan from Erebor; Eloise from Sherwood; and Ariel from Atlantica, who was the polar opposite of her partner. Emma took an immediate liking to her—and the way Graham blushed when she placed a friendly peck on his cheek before running her bubbly self off. 

“I see that,” Emma teased, which just made him blush harder. 

“Piss off; she’s married.” Still—it was cute, but also a sharp reminder of what he’d given up when he entered the lie their lives had become. 

Thankfully, their tributes arrived then, to distract her from any further sulking. Tamara and August at least weren’t wearing actual wood this year, but when your realm was also known as the Enchanted Forest—and responsible for most of Pomem’s lumber production—it was hard to get away from either looking like a tree or a lumberjack. 

The stylists had gone with the former this year, weaving leaves through the kids’ hair and putting them in beaded brown jumpsuits. Not awe-inspiring, but not terrible. The tributes still seemed uncomfortable, though, and Tamara was clearly trying to avoid moving too much and damaging it. It was definitely the nicest, most expensive thing either kid had ever worn—something Emma tried not to think about too much, because she’d only get more upset at everything. 

They got the kids settled in their chariot and then headed to their seats in the stadium that held the opening ceremonies. An entire building that they only used three days a year; ridiculous. 

Misthaven’s escort, Tink, was already at their assigned seats and waved them over. For someone from Olympus, she was...tolerable. Possibly immortal, too—she’d been the escort when Graham won his Games, but somehow looked younger than Emma. Just another example of Olympus’s fixation on youth and beauty, probably, aided by their scientific advancements that bordered on magical (which was another irony Emma hated thinking about). 

“Don’t the tributes just look fabulous?” she gushed as they sat down. “Probably the best yet from Misthaven!”

“Yeah, I think so,” Emma halfheartedly agreed (which wasn’t saying much—and she was pointedly ignoring whatever that said about her own looks).

“Oh, the parade is always my favorite,” Tink sighed happily.

From Emma’s memory, it was only the least stressful part. But again: bark itches.

Graham continued to introduce her to people—even the new head gamemaker, Jefferson Hatter, who was in his first year of designing the Games—until the house lights went down, leaving just the ones on the track at the center of the stadium.

Overhead, the voice of Sidney Glass, perennial event host, announced the start of the parade, and then the first chariot appeared with the tributes from Agrabah.

Ideally, the costumes the tributes wore had something to do with each realm’s chief industry; as the primary supplier of energy for Pomem, the kids from Agrabah wore costumes that lit up. Not original, but it worked. Over the course of 99 years, Emma figured some ideas were bound to be recycled.

The rest of the realms followed, in no particular order. Next was Stormhold, known for its agriculture; then Arendelle, the technological hub of Pomem. The Misthaven tributes were fairly well received, but the most enthusiasm definitely came from Tink. DunBroch’s tributes were almost identical to Stormhold’s, given that they were just a different kind of farmer (livestock); and Erebor’s tribute to mining was just confusing. The kids from Atlantica were dressed like mermaids; Emma doubted their fishermen found too many of those nowadays. Oz almost always wore something green and military, this year being no exception; and Phrygia was stereotypically covered in gold, being both the richest realm and the supplier of luxury items (that obviously only went to Olympus).

Sherwood brought up the rear, which honestly sucked for them, being the poorest realm, and likely meant the parade would end on an anticlimactic note; it was all about the spectacle, after all. But this year—wow. For the first time in the parade, Emma was actually invested. The realm was known for its textiles, and finally, someone in Olympus had put that to use. The girls wore absolutely stunning gowns, with capes somehow floating behind them that seemed to mimic cottony clouds. The tributes were holding hands and absolutely beaming at the audience, who was lapping it up. Even the rest of the mentors, Emma noticed, were staring in rapt attention; hell, it looked like Killian was crying (maybe he wasn’t such an ass, then). 

“Well, that just complicated things,” Graham muttered as the chariot retreated.

“How so?”

“After a presentation like that, everyone is going to want to sponsor them.”

He was right, she knew. Which just made their job that much harder. 

She cut her palms with her nails with how hard she was squeezing her fists to drown the sparks.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Alice’s heart was absolutely racing. To be fair, it had been like that pretty much ever since she stepped forward back in Sherwood, aside from when she was asleep. But now, during the parade? Faster than a rabbit.

Not because of the crowd, though that was indescribable.

Not because of her dress, even if it was gorgeous; Tiger Lily, their stylist, had done an incredible job.

And not because of the image of her mother on one of the stadium’s screens, actually almost smiling. That never happened.

No; it was because she was holding hands with Robyn. And Robyn was also smiling at her.

God, this was terribly inconvenient. But if they didn’t have a ton of time left, then she was going to enjoy it, even if she was still too embarrassed to let on her crush. She just really hoped she could keep enough control to not burn Robyn’s hand with the sparks of her magic.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The first day in the tribute training center was done, and the Atlantica kids were waiting for dinner back in their quarters with their mentors. It was only the first day, he knew, but Killian didn’t like their chances this year. He’d never let that on to the teenagers, though; they were nervous enough as it was. Even in their lodgings, where they had the chance to relax and indulge in the luxuries that were standard in Olympus, they seemed on edge. Killian couldn’t decide, though, if it was due to the fact that they were being treated to more opulence than they’d ever seen before (although spartan by Olympus standards, the Tribute Castle was a literal palace compared to the seaside villages in Atlantica) or just the overall anxiety of the situation; he remembered feeling overwhelmed by both during his games.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think their tributes had what it took—the boy, William, was a decent fighter and clever, and the girl, Ursula, had a fierce streak that seemed to be a mile long. The whole point of the training center was to learn fighting and survival skills to use in the Arena. Most realms took advantage of it, and he could see that the kids were learning; but the tributes from Phrygia and Oz—who train year-round for the games, even though that was technically illegal—just used it as an opportunity to intimidate the others. Thankfully, Alice and Robyn were looking good, as well; it turned out Robyn was an excellent shot with a bow. (And, even better, Alice was managing to keep her magic under wraps.)

As they waited for the meal, Killian and Ariel began to discuss strategy with the tributes. Ariel was the first tribute he mentored who’d gone on to win. On the surface, she seemed sweet and demure; but when she had a trident in her hands, she was downright scary. 

“It’s not a bad idea to form an alliance early on. It can really help you get farther in the games,” Ariel said. “Were there any tributes you noticed today that you’d want to work with? We can talk to their mentors and set something up.”

“Actually, yeah,” William said. “The pair from Misthaven—Ursula and I talked to them a bit, and they seemed pretty cool.” Ursula nodded in agreement.

“That’s actually pretty smart,” Ariel said, looking over at Killian. “Misthaven is forest, we’re water; that covers almost every arena scenario.”

“Aye, that it does. Good thinking, Will,” Killian said with a small smile. “It looked like the pair from Sherwood had a pretty good grasp on things, too.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Ursula answered, though she sounded less than enthused at the idea. Ariel cast him a very knowing look; she was one of the few people aware of the situation, and had spent several hours on the train giving him a good, long hug. He could say she was his best friend, but the truth was, she was really one of his only ones—though she didn’t let that hold her back from saying the same about him.

(They had once very briefly discussed the idea of more; but after he lost his first love, he was pretty sure his heart didn’t work that way anymore, and then she met a handsome, sweet fisherman named Eric and that was that.)

“Just let us know, and we’ll talk to the Misthaven mentors tomorrow, or whoever else,” Ariel told the kids. 

They glanced at each other, nodding, and Ursula said, “Yeah, we’d like that.” 

“It’s a plan!” she exclaimed, then turned to Killian. “Do you want to talk to them, or should I?”

A general feeling of shame washed over him. “Uh, you should probably do that. I’m not sure I’d be the best one to make a case.”

She crossed her arms and gave him another look that reminded him just how well she knew him. “What did you do?”

“What makes you think I did anything? You wound me, mermaid,” he threw back, using the nickname he knew she hated (but would never live down on account of her strong swimming abilities—skills that helped her survive her games). 

She just raised her eyebrows at him, unamused.

He sighed. “Let’s just say I got off on the wrong foot with Ms. Nolan and it’d probably be best if you headed that charge. I can handle anyone else.”

“Alright. I expect the full story later, though,” she warned, and likely only stopped persisting because of the arrival of dinner. Honestly, it was like having a little sister sometimes.

Down at the training center the next day, he saw his tributes approach the pair from Misthaven, and the little group stuck together, showing each other skills they had learned in their respective homes. He surveyed the rest of the room to see what others were doing (though it was a bit hard to distinguish them when everyone was wearing the same games-issued black top and pants). Phrygia and Oz were already in a pack, as could be assumed, and he watched Robyn continuing to work with an archery instructor; his brow furrowed when she nailed the center of the target. If she was forming a strong partnership with Alice, it was good; otherwise...he didn’t want to think about it. 

Alice herself was learning how to set snares with rope; he’d taught her how to tie all the sailor’s knots he could, so it was no surprise she was having success there.

“Well, at least that seems to be going good,” Ariel commented as she stepped up to his side. “Sorry they weren’t receptive to your idea.”

“It was a longshot,” he answered, a bit more resigned than he probably should have sounded.

“How do you think she’ll do?” A glance told him she was looking at Alice, too.

“Honestly...I have no idea.” More Victor’s children died in the games than won; Emma Nolan was definitely an anomaly. He’d love to be able to pick her brain, or Graham’s (he was Emma’s mentor, if he recalled correctly), but that might give away too much. 

“Well, she’s definitely resourceful,” Ariel continued. “If anyone can win out of sheer ingenuity and stubbornness, it’s her.” Despite his worry, he had to chuckle at that assessment; Ariel was probably right.

Movement at the other end of the room caught his eye; Emma and Graham had arrived. He nodded in that direction, saying, “Looks like you’re up, mermaid.”

She gently punched him in the shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it.” If anyone could establish an alliance, it was Ariel and her effervescent optimism. 

She rolled her eyes at him, but smiled nonetheless and then headed over to their hopeful teammates.

In the meantime, Killian fixed his eyes back on Alice, and racked his brain: he had to find a way to help her win. He had to.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Everything was abuzz in the training center in the hour or so leading up to the start of the Games. The interviews were done, tribute scores had been given, and the kids all said their goodbyes before being whisked away to the Arena, somewhere in the expanse of Neverland surrounding Olympus. 

The training center had been transformed overnight, almost magically; Emma didn’t even recognize it when she walked in. Gone were the weightlifting equipment and educational stations; while she wouldn’t exactly call it cozy now, it certainly had all the necessary amenities: food, lots of plush seating, and screens everywhere. Along one wall, the largest screen displayed a map of the arena, with glowing dots indicating each tribute’s location; they were all still in a perfect ring in the middle. The myriad other screens across the room were focused on each tribute, in addition to panoramas of the forested arena and its central lake. If it wasn’t about to be the setting of so much death, Emma might have found it beautiful.

Saying goodbye to Tamara and August had been tough; trying to keep them alive would be harder.

“We’ve got this,” Graham murmured, squeezing her hand in encouragement. As if the task ahead of them wasn’t enough, she also had to keep up that charade, too.

“I fucking hope so.”

He tried to give her a stern look for her language, but it didn’t last long before melting into a grin. “Well, shall we join our alliance mates?” he asked, nodding to his right.

Off to the side, Ariel and Killian were standing, chatting with each other. The proposal shocked Emma, but it was hard to say no when two experienced mentors approached like that. It was hard to say no to Ariel, too—especially for Graham.

But Killian...she still wasn’t sure on.

“Yeah, let’s do this,” she answered.

Ariel, unsurprisingly, greeted them with a huge grin and massive hugs. Killian offered his hand to Graham, giving it a firm shake, before turning to Emma. 

“I, uh, I owe you an apology for our first meeting, lass,” he said solemnly, eyes cast down. “Unfortunately, the Games have a habit of doing that sometimes.”

“I get it,” she answered. It was more of an apology than she had expected to get. “Think you can teach me how to avoid that happening here?”

“I can try,” he shrugged; that was probably a tall request on her part.

“Works for me. To an alliance?” She offered her hand to him.

He gently took it in his. “To an alliance.” Then, to her shock, he brought it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. She was definitely gaping again, but the intense way he was staring made it hard to look away. No wonder he had such a scoundrel reputation.

The moment was broken by an announcement: “Tributes, to your starting positions; the Games begin in one minute.” Sidney Glass was apparently ready; guess they better be, too.

They all turned their attention to the screens, glancing around to find their tributes. Graham quickly located theirs, which gave Emma a few extra moments to glance around and see what everyone else was doing. 

Ariel, too, was focused on the screens with Atlantica’s tributes, but Killian’s attention was elsewhere—at Eloise, oddly enough. The woman was staring back at him, then gave him a nod before looking up. Huh; that was odd—but Emma could worry over what that was about later.

“Forty-five seconds,” Glass called out, and the platforms the tributes were standing on rose up into the Arena.

“Thirty seconds.” The platforms came into place, and everyone, tribute and mentor alike, got their first view of the Arena. Emma saw lots of trees—perfect for a kid from Misthaven.

“Fifteen seconds.” Graham found her hand again; this time, she was the one squeezing—both to anchor her emotions and to quell the sparks of magic that were threatening to escape.

“Ten.” Her eyes began to dart around in nervousness—just like they had when she was the one standing on that platform.

“Nine, eight...” Graham’s eyes were glued to the screen.

“Seven, six…” So were Ariel’s.

“Five, four…” Killian’s were, too…

“Three, two…” ...but why was he looking at the girl from Sherwood? (And why did it make her think of the rest of their conversation in the elevator?)

“One.” Emma’s gaze darted back to her own screens and she clenched her fists.

“Let the games begin, and remember: All Magic Comes With A Price!”


	3. We're all just pieces in their games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from "Just A Game" by Birdy

Robyn was running. Toward what, she had no idea; but she knew she was running away from the worst of the carnage, leaving broken branches and crushed leaves in her wake.

She’d had to resist the temptation of entering the usual bloodbath that took place around the Apple Tree at the start of the games—especially when she saw a bow and a quiver hanging off one of the lower branches, amid all the other supplies and weapons—but she also didn’t have a death wish, so it was safer to get out of there.

She just hoped Alice had, too. That was the strategy they’d decided. But she only had a glimpse of the other girl across the clearing before the cannons went off, announcing the start of the games.

Chaos broke out immediately as she made a running dive for a backpack that sat just a few feet from her platform. Somehow, no one noticed her in their mad dash to the center. She grabbed the pack, slung it over her shoulder, and made for the trees.

Once she was a bit hidden, she took a glance at the battlefield. She knew the games were dangerous, but she wasn’t prepared for the scene in front of her: at least two tributes had knives in their necks, and the corresponding cannon booms she’d just heard indicated their demise. Farther over, two guys were engaged in hand-to-hand combat over a pack, until the larger of the two got his hands on the other’s neck and gave a strong, sickening twist.  _ Boom _ .

Alice was nowhere to be seen, thankfully; she probably ran the other direction. Which honestly, Robyn kind of preferred. But she didn’t have time to dwell on that right now.

Once she started running again, she hadn’t stopped—though she’d definitely slowed. She had no idea how long she’d been going, but the burning in her lungs and legs told her it had been a few hours. She’d need to find water, maybe some food, and, judging by the waning light, some shelter, which wouldn’t be too hard to come by in the thick forest of the Arena. Neverland was naturally a jungle, but the Gamemakers had found a way to exert mechanical influence over the magical land, and always altered it to some other landscape for the games; now, it looked like the forest that sat on the border of Sherwood and Misthaven. Robyn had only seen it once, but it’s dense trees and thick canopy were enough to leave an impression.

It had been a while since she’d either seen another person or heard any cannon thunder, so she finally let herself pause to get her bearings. Water was flowing up ahead, she could hear, and headed toward the sound. 

The trees broke to reveal a clear stream that Robyn prayed wasn’t poisonous (it had happened before). Digging in her bag, she found a canteen, a blanket, a length of rope, and a utility knife; all stuff that would come in handy.

She filled the canteen, took a sip, splashed her face with the cool water, and then glanced around for somewhere to rest. The forest floor seemed like a terrible idea—but the trees all had good branches for climbing; maybe she should head up?

It didn’t take long for her to get a good ways off the ground, and the rope in her bag was perfect for securing her to the tree. She’d be able to sleep up there—assuming nothing crazy happened, of course. She wouldn’t be able to fully let her guard down, she knew, but maybe she’d at least be able to get some rest.

That’s what her mom would tell her to do, at least. Growing up in a single parent home hadn’t always been the easiest, especially with how much her mom worked, but it meant she knew how to fend for herself—and that she had a shot at winning this thing. A long shot, but better than some. (Her score of 8 out of 10 from the training evaluations helped, too.)

Her stomach grumbled, but she drowned it with her canteen; she could worry about food when she could actually see. The sky was almost full dark by the time she got settled in, and she had a mostly clear view of the sky from her perch. The stars she saw weren’t the actual sky, she knew—there was a forcefield surrounding the Arena that doubled as a screen, but no one knew just how much the Gamemakers controlled it: whether it was just there for them to project notices on, or whether the entire image was a simulation.

As she stared, the national anthem started to play from unseen loudspeakers. Against the sky, images were shown of the tributes who had died that day; she took a mental tally as she watched.

They came alphabetically: one from Agrabah, one from Arendelle, one from Dun Broch, both from Oz, and both from Stormhold. Seven down; thirteen left. For Day One, that was pretty average.

And, she realized, Alice was still alive. She let out a breath she didn’t notice she’d been holding. It was good news, for sure, but...god, she was a terrible person, too.

The only way Robyn was going to survive the games was if someone (or something) else killed Alice. Because she’d never be able to live with herself—or face Eloise (hell, or Killian)—if she was the one to do that. Especially when the narrative was already in favor of Alice, as had been made very clear during their interviews.

Sidney Glass had been all over her as soon as she took the seat. Robyn had never understood the need for the interviews in the first place—why get to know someone you were just going to watch die?—but she couldn’t deny that Alice had been anything but charming and personable; when you were from the poorest of the realms, you needed all the help you could get to attract sponsor attention.

Alice managed to dodge any questions about her other parent, and faced all the requisite ones about why she volunteered; but then Sidney asked the one that had managed to throw off Robyn the most, even though she wasn’t on stage yet: “So, got anyone special waiting for you back in Sherwood?”

Robyn had had to snort at that; Alice was something of a loner in their part of the realm—a typical small town with its cliques and busybodies. Whether it was because of jealousy that she grew up in Victor’s Village, or just the fact that she seemed to go with her own flow, she wasn’t extremely close with anyone her age.

“No, no,” Alice answered, covering up her nerves with a giggle.

“Oh, there has to be someone who’s caught your eye—isn’t there?”

“Um, well, there is,” Alice stammered, “but I don’t think it’d work out.”

“No? Why not?”

_ Because the odds of us getting out of this alive are 20-to-1 _ , Robyn thought derisively as she watched from backstage.

“Because, uh…” Alice scanned the audience, then looked past Sidney to where Robyn was waiting in the wings. “Because she came here with me.”

And then Robyn’s heart skipped a beat.

See, there had been one thing she’d been keeping hidden...well, definitely ever since Alice stepped forward at the Reaping, but longer than that even. She may have been one of the popular girls in school, but Alice had always intrigued her.

And that had only grown in the last few days.

So to say the feeling was mutual was putting it simply. She’d tried to play it cool, like she was so used to doing, when Sidney subsequently asked her about it a few minutes later, but she highly doubted she had—she’d definitely been blushing when she admitted she returned Alice’s feelings.

Thus: her present conflict.

Crickets were chirping all around her, but adrenaline was still keeping her awake, and her fingers drifted to her lips.

Before they’d entered the Arena, after dressing in the Olympus-provided clothing they now wore, they had a brief moment alone. It was slightly awkward, and things had been ever since the interviews the day before. 

Robyn had tried a casual, “So, uh, good luck.”

Alice stared at her for a long moment, worried her bottom lip with her teeth (adorably), then muttered “screw it” and surged forward.

She grabbed Robyn by the lapel of her windbreaker and crashed her lips against hers; Robyn was shocked at first, but wasted no time in reciprocating (and was so thankful for the bit of lip gloss Tiger Lily had slapped on her). Her hands quickly found their way to Alice’s trim waist as she tilted her head to get a better angle. If this was the last kiss she’d ever get, then she was going to make it worthwhile, dammit.

All too soon, there was a heavy knock on the door, making them jump apart.

“You really do like me, huh?” Alice had said softly.

“Yeah,” was Robyn’s breathless reply.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in there.”

“O-okay.” 

Alice grinned at her, then turned to open the door and head out into whatever lay ahead of them. Robyn took a deep breath and followed. And here they were.

She didn’t want to lie to Alice about seeing her again. But she knew she couldn’t make any impossible choices. So, the farther away she stayed, the better. 

But no matter what, she at least had the memory of Alice’s sweet, persistent kiss.

She eventually drifted off, the faint taste of the other girl on her lips.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The first day of the Games was finally over, but Killian knew they still had so much to do. Not only were both of his tributes still alive, so were both from Misthaven—and, most importantly, Alice. 

He could see Eloise on the other side of the game center chatting with a sponsor; there were several of them still milling about, as they tended to on the first day, but after that, mentors had to go to them. 

He’d managed to sweet talk some rations from a wealthy grocer, and those were on their way to Ursula and William. (William very nearly didn’t make it, but he discovered a lake while being chased by the Phrygian tributes; what he lacked in running ability, the boy made up for in swimming.) 

Killian easily slipped into the suave, rakish role he’d created for the games; it was what let him keep his tributes alive as long as he did. He knew he’d developed a reputation for using his body and his looks to get what he wanted. Some complained that it wasn’t fair, but none of this was, really, so why not use the gifts he’d been given to take advantage of it?

(That, and it had been made clear to him very early on that if he didn’t, other people—people with much more power than he had—would.)

After making promises to visit a few more sponsors, and passing off the respective gifts to Ariel for later distribution, he finally let himself take a respite, falling against one of the couches with a huff. He’d be better off going back to his quarters to get some sleep, or grabbing one of the revival drinks from the well-stocked buffet, but he needed the mental break as much as the physical one right now.

“Well, we’re off to a good start,” Graham said as he too collapsed on the sofa. 

“As best as can be,” Killian answered. “I think this part is always the most stressful, though.”

“Aye, I’d agree there. I told Emma to take a rest for a moment, but she refused.”

Graham nodded to another part of the room, where Emma was talking to a sponsor—and not having much luck, it looked like. The conversation ended and she shuffled over to where they sat, before flopping down dejectedly. 

“This sucks,” she moaned. “How am I supposed to get anything if these sponsors won’t even give me the time of day?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, darling,” Graham started, in what was sure to be an ill-advised statement, “but you do have a tendency to come off...well, prickly.” 

The glare she leveled at him somehow even managed to make Killian feel ashamed. He cleared his throat before saying anything, lest she outright murder him.

“You just need to charm them; show them how much you appreciate it and make them feel special.”

“I think we all know just how you make them feel special,” Emma threw back.

How was it that she knew all his buttons to push? A brief rage flared inside, but he was able to tamp it down quickly. “Be glad you don’t have to, Nolan,” he said quietly. Were it not for her son, he knew Emma would likely be in a situation similar to his. “And that’s not what I’m saying. People in Olympus are vain; play to that.”

She huffed again, but seemed a bit more subdued. “The only reason I’m here is because I was good at strategy and with a sword; not because I’m charming. That’s my dad.”

Graham snorted at that; it was true that David Nolan was nicknamed “Prince Charming” in these parts, but something told him the other man wouldn’t be laughing at his father-in-law’s expense back home. (Was David officially Graham’s in-law? Were he and Emma even actually married? Killian was the first to know that wasn’t a requirement to having a child—but they were together, right? He only wondered because...they didn’t always act like it.)

“Then surely, he passed on some tips to you before now,” Killian continued.

She sighed and nodded. “Yeah, he did. It’s just...harder.”

“Harder than what?”

“Than what I expected.”

He scoffed. “I think you just described the games in a nutshell.”

“I know, I know; it’s just...you’d think these people would want the promotion.”

“They do. You just have to convince them that your tribute is the best to do that. Tamara already has a kill; that's an excellent starting point.”

An awkward silence followed, likely as they all wondered just what the hell their lives were.

Thankfully, Graham broke the silence. “I’ll take first shift; get some rest, and come back fresh in the morning.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah; tonight won’t be too eventful. Go on.” 

“I should probably head out myself,” Killian added; his night was far from over, though. “Might I escort the lady back to her quarters?”

Emma rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Sure.”

“Alright; just let me check in with Ariel.” They were a fairly well-oiled machine by this point, though, so she just waved him off and kept chatting with Jasmine.

He made a stop at the buffet to grab an energy drink and a bite to eat, and took that opportunity to figure out how Alice was doing; it was hard to tell what exactly he was seeing on her screen, but it looked like she’d found a secluded space to sleep in. He’d have to hope that was enough; at least, he knew, she could sleep just about anywhere.

When Killian returned, Emma was giving Graham a hug farewell, but seemed oddly stiff when he kissed her on the cheek. Killian didn’t know why he was so weirdly invested in their relationship; it wasn’t like he’d had much success in those himself, so he was the last person to be judging. But the more he was around them, the harder it was for him to see how they fit together. Oh, well—opposites attract, or whatever.

“Shall we?” he interrupted, rather than continue to creep on them.

“I’ll see you,” Emma said to Graham, then joined Killian; no other affectations were exchanged. Huh. Whatever.

He led them from the room into the corridor, where an elevator was already waiting. Hopefully, this trip would be less awkward than the last one they shared.

“I’m sorry,” she said; he definitely wasn’t expecting that.

“For what?”

“For what I said earlier, about sponsorships; I didn’t realize—I had no idea—”

“That I have to whore myself out?” he finished, albeit crudely.

“Y-yeah.” Her eyes were glued to the tiled floor. “I guess I’m farther removed from Olympus than I thought; I didn’t realize that was even a thing.”

“It’s...not so bad,” he half lied. “It was this, or be completely under Gold’s thumb and power. At least this way, I have control of who I...see.” He didn’t know why this was so hard to talk about—why he felt the need for propriety. Instead of being Gold’s hooker (pardon the pun), he was one for his realm instead; that was all this was. “But as I’m sure you know, having control is a rare commodity in our lives.”

“Yeah, it definitely is.” She was even more withdrawn now; he could see the worry and shame flickering across her face. He wanted to ease her concerns, but then the elevator chimed, indicating they’d reached her floor. She left quickly once the doors opened, but he followed her to the entrance to her quarters.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” she said, in a tone that suggested she was trying to tease but fell short. “Are you some sort of gentleman now?”

“I’m always a gentleman,” he crooned back, hoping to lift the weight off the moment. 

She rolled her eyes again, but started to smile a little. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” It was definitely a question.

“Of course; what, are you tired of me already?”

“Just a little.”

“That might be a personal record.”

“What, fastest a woman has found you annoying?”

“Few would classify me as such.”

“Well, maybe some more should. Unless big heads are attractive here.”

“This one is.”

She laughed, and he couldn't help but grin at the sound. “Well, I better crash, and you probably should, too.”

“I would, but, ah…”

“Oh, right. Um. Have fun?” she offered instead, looking adorably unsure.

“I’ll try. Good night, Emma.”

“Good night, Jones.”

She disappeared into her quarters and he returned to the elevator, heading to the ground floor. On the way down, he guzzled down the revival drink, feeling its effects almost immediately. The science of this realm was sometimes astonishing—until he remembered that it was at the cost of the magic that created this world in the first place, and the taste turned sour on his tongue.

He wondered what Emma would say about that. Then he wondered why he was even wondering that. And what was that by her door? Had he actually been flirting with a married woman? (Or, if not married, then committed or whatever.) Outside of sponsors, he hadn’t genuinely done that in ages; not since...no, he couldn’t think about her—not with what he had to do tonight.

He slipped on his jacket as he went out into the night. Technically, everyone in the building had a curfew and it was supposed to be on lockdown at this hour, but he almost always had an override to allow him to make his late-night appointments. And honestly, after being cooped up inside all day, this tiny bit of fresh air was worth everything else he had to deal with.

It was only a couple blocks to his first visit, and the city was still bustling with life. When the realms first merged, Olympus had been little more than a small fishing village that had suddenly found itself without a coast. But it quickly grew to the busy metropolis it was now, full of sleek skyscrapers and digital screens everywhere, the sound of advertisements and hovercars echoing off steel and glass.

Despite the late hour, Olympus citizens were still out and about; the games always seemed to wake up the city, compared to the few other times he’d been there. A few people recognized him as he made his way, but his reputation preceded him: no one bothered him. Good.

As he approached his destination, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt a bit more. Undoing them was easy enough one-handed; he had to assume some of his novelty was in his patrons being able to help him get redressed. (There was a reason he stuck to basic shirts and sweaters at home.) 

He gave himself one last glance in the reflection of the highly polished door, ran his hand through his hair to mess it up the right amount, then put on his signature smoldering grin before knocking. 

The door swung open, revealing an older, moderately attractive woman—the grocer. “Hello there, darling,” he murmured.

She grinned back. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Me too,” he lied—but she didn’t notice.

No one ever did. They ate up his falsehoods because it was what they wanted to hear. And in return, Killian got to forget about what was going on in the arena each night.

But this night, two things kept drifting in: Alice, obviously...and Emma, somehow. That was terribly inconvenient. 

Sex was one thing; feelings, though? He didn’t want those. Those had given him enough grief for one lifetime.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Seventeen years ago**

It was raining. Of course it was; this entire game had been wet, ever since the first cannon fire. Good thing Killian was from a wet realm; the odds had been in his favor from the start.

But now it was the end, and the grip he had on his sword was tenuous at best. He had to focus everything on not letting it slip from his grasp, especially as he brushed the water and hair from his face. The only other tribute left, Claude from Phrygia, was feet away, also brandishing a sword—and a sinister grin.

His opponent’s blade was already covered in blood—mostly others’, some of it Killian’s. But if he spent too much time thinking about the throbbing pain at the end of his left arm, he wouldn’t be ready to parry Claude’s moves.

The other boy was just as exhausted, but had a size advantage. So when he finally lunged at Killian, it wasn’t hard to deflect the blow, but it pushed both of them to the ground. Killian was pinned against the sand by Claude’s weight and the jolt forced the air from his lungs.

Worse, though, was that he’d let go of his sword.

Claude quickly regained his bearings and pushed himself up to sitting on his haunches, pinning Killian’s legs to the ground. He still had his weapon, which he twirled menacingly, before flipping it in his grip, tip pointed down.

“Any last words, Jones?” he taunted, leaning over, ready to strike.

“I should be asking you the same,” Killian spat back, slowly reaching for his belt with his right hand.

“Pretty sure I’ve got the advantage here.” To emphasize his viewpoint, he reached out with his sword arm to punch the bloody mess that was Killian’s left hand. He’d as good as chopped it off earlier when he sliced through the base of it; this added trauma drew a yelp of pain that burned through Killian’s body, making him gasp for air and see stars.

But it was Claude’s fatal mistake. Even though he was in agony, he managed to grasp the oversized fish hook he’d been gifted a few days ago. It hadn’t been terribly useful in catching any food from the sea they now sat beside, but it was still sharp.

As quick as he could manage, while Claude was still distracted in his revelry, Killian slipped the hook from his belt loop and struck upwards, embedding the steel in Claude’s neck.

He watched the other boy’s eyes grow wide in surprise, then yanked.

Killian felt more than saw the resulting spray of blood as Claude fell backwards. He laid there, letting the rain wash over him until he heard what would be the final cannon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sidney Glass exclaimed overhead. “May I present the winner of the 82nd Annual Magic Games!” 

His tone was a far cry from what Killian felt. He let out a long, long exhale, and finally let everything wash over him. Watching the death of his fellow tribute, Wendy; the way the life faded out of the tribute from Oz after he stabbed her; the other two tributes he’d killed, not even sure where they were from; and this last one. Add in the constant terror of staying alive in an arena that was bound and determined to kill you, from those haunting poisonous plants that took Liam to the dearth of edible fauna, and Killian was spent.

(He hated to think about it, but an awful idea came to him: What if another reason Liam had stepped up all those years ago was because Killian wasn’t ready to win the games then, but he had been now? He was still living, after all. But gods, what had the cost been?)

He lost track of where the rain ended and his tears started as he lay sobbing on the beach, in anguish, relief, and pain. But eventually, the hovercraft came for him, to bring him back to Olympus, to a victor’s celebration.

Had he really won anything, though?

He was still crying when he was pulled aboard, and easily fell into the comforting embrace of his mentor.

“It’s all over,” Milah had crooned. “You’re done.” He knew her words were empty platitudes, but at that point, it was the best news he’d ever heard. 

How he wished she’d been right.

The next few days were a blur. He spent an indeterminate amount of time in the hospital in a fog of painkillers while there after they amputated what was left of his hand; he was still adjusting to it when they put him in a suit and paraded him before the country in the victor’s celebration. It was a welcome distraction from the ache where his hand should be and the demons clawing at the back of his brain; he might have leaned into the celebrations a bit too much, but he doubted anyone would comment.

He was adrift, no doubt, but he found an unexpected anchor: Milah. True, he had Nemo, who understood the experience he’d just been through, but Milah was fresher to the experience—less jaded. On the train ride home, she’d taken him into her arms—and her heart.

She’d been the victor of the hardest games to date: the 75th, the Third Quarter Quell. Instead of the usual 20 tributes, it was a field of 40. She was the fiercest, the strongest, and the smartest of them all. Using her net-making skills gained as the daughter of a fisherman, she was able to set traps for the other tributes and take them out from there. Since then, the gamemakers had taken care to keep anything long and stringy out of the arenas.

Living with Nemo, she wasn’t a total stranger to Killian prior to being his mentor. He’d definitely harbored a small crush on her, but never dared do anything about it. But once they found themselves on the other side of the games—and on more even footing, despite their age gap—he was pleasantly surprised to find the feeling was mutual. 

When he returned to Atlantica, he took the home in Victor’s Village next to Milah’s, rather than by Nemo’s, though he found himself at her place more often than not. She was the one to convince him to adopt the hook as his new appendage, a move the citizens of Olympus would—and did—eat up. At night, when memories from the arena gave him nightmares, she helped calm him. They attempted to keep their relationship under wraps, but came to find that neither cared what anyone else thought, least of all Olympus. 

They had found happiness in each other, but he was foolish to have ever believed it could last. 

While he loved Milah, she had other admirers, particularly President Gold. Gold was known for making some of the more attractive victors available to the wealthier citizens of Olympus—a situation Killian was well aware of—and Milah was beautiful by any definition of the word. Gold had taken quite a liking to her, and intended on keeping her to himself; when he discovered Killian and Milah’s relationship during Killian’s Victory Tour six months later, jealousy boiled over to rage. 

After they arrived home from the tour, a basket of apples was waiting. Killian was initially wary, not only about how they got there, but having heard rumors around Olympus that Gold was known for poisoning apples (among other means) to take out political enemies. Milah, however, shrugged it off and assured Killian they were just tall tales. 

She’d barely taken two bites of a particularly bright red apple when she collapsed and began convulsing. Without a cure, all Killian could do was hold her as the poison raced through her body, killing her within minutes. It was like watching his brother die all over again, only worse; he’d had to watch Liam from afar, but Milah was right there, in his arms, and he could do nothing.

He buried her in the ocean, where they had spent many hours alone on his boat (a purchase made with his victory money), to which he retreated for several weeks following her death with little more company than copious amounts of rum. The only thing to pull him from his grief was finding something else to live for: his daughter.

He vowed revenge on Olympus for what they did to Milah, to him; but he knew any form of subversion would result in his immediate demise, and he couldn’t do that to Alice. So he adopted an air of complete indifference and put on the cocky, pretty-boy facade for which he became known—it was much easier to hide the pain and ignore the anger that way.

Besides, the only person he had any room in his broken heart for was Alice; why bother trying to find anyone else?


	4. Should I kill you with my sword, yeah? Or should I kill you with this word?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter yet! Ahh!
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Take The Heartland" by Glen Hansard

**Thirteen years ago**

If Emma closed her eyes and cleared her mind, it wasn’t hard to imagine she was home. Trees were everywhere in Misthaven and she’d basically grown up in the limbs of them; the smell of pine and pitch were as ingrained in her memory as the smell of her mom’s kitchen and her dad’s aftershave. 

The warm, gentle breeze on her face as she sat near the top of a particularly tall conifer almost tricked her into thinking this was just another summer day—that her friends were waiting for her on the ground and her parents would be calling her in for dinner soon.

Until a cannon boom ripped her from the illusion. Lest she forget, she was still in the Arena, and still fighting for her life. 

“What can you see?”

Lily was barely visible on the ground through the branches, but Emma could hear her loud and clear. They’d developed a system pretty quickly: Emma would climb to scout, while Lily kept a lookout on the ground.

“There’s definitely smoke, but it’s all the way on the other side of the arena. Looks more like an explosion than anything,” she answered as she watched the plume of smoke rise. A forest fire wouldn’t have surprised her, so she was relieved that it seemed to be contained—and hoped it stayed that way. “I’m coming down.”

She hopped down the branches as lithely as she’d scaled them, then dropped the last few feet to the ground. Lily was waiting with her crossbow at the ready, dark eyes scanning around them, guarding both the tree and Emma’s backpack. “Which way was it?”

“To the northeast; so we should be good for a while if we head that way,” she said, nodding in the opposite direction as she hefted her bag onto her shoulders. 

“Let’s do it, then.”

She’d met Lily in the training center and they hit it off surprisingly quickly. Graham hadn’t been so sure of creating an alliance with a tribute from Phrygia, for whatever reason, but the girls insisted. Emma had no idea what was going on behind the scenes, but things seemed to be going well so far. There were 6 left in the games—well, 5 now, based on the sound they heard a bit ago. Once they reconnected after a day of wandering (and somehow avoiding the pixees that swept their way through the arena), they’d become what Emma had to assume was a formidable pair.

Lily was good at hand-to-hand combat; Emma had a sword in her hand from a young age—it was how her dad won his games. Between the two, they’d been able to take down anyone that came at them, easily eliminating 7 tributes between the two of them.

Emma’s co-tribute, Billy, hadn’t made it out of the bloodbath at the Apple Tree, but Lily’s was still out there, most likely. “Is it bad that I hope that was Abigail?” she said as they walked, not really in search of anything but mainly to avoid the dangers of staying in one place for too long.

Emma just shrugged. “I think the definition of bad and good doesn’t really matter here.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

They found a rocky outcrop that night to sleep on, one that kept them hidden from view but able to see anything (or anyone) coming. 

A packet of trail mix had arrived from a sponsor a bit ago, and they were both munching on it while watching the still forest. Other than the breeze and the occasional forest creature, it was nearly silent; Emma just might be able to let her guard down enough to get some sleep.

A jaw-cracking yawn told her she needed it. “Hey, Lil—Lily?”

She had to repeat the other girl’s name because she was either lost in thought, or really intrigued by a tree. But she jumped at the second mention of her name. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to take first watch, or should I?” Emma asked, silently hoping for the former option. But she didn’t trust Lily implicitly enough to not give her the choice.

“I’ll take first; get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

“Awesome. ‘Night.”

“Night.”

Before she laid down, she unbuckled her sword belt—the only time she did that—and hugged it close as she settled her head on her pack. She was asleep within minutes.

Sometime later, she was awoken by the strains of the national anthem and the announcement of that day’s losses. One was the last tribute from Atlantica, who Emma and Lily had taken out that morning; the other was one of the tributes from Erebor. So not Abigail.

Emma tried to drift back off, but something didn’t seem right. She glanced around and realized she was alone.

“Lily?” she whisper-yelled, then waited. But all she heard was crickets.

She called out again, and silently unsheathed her sword.

After the longest 10 seconds of her life, she nearly jumped out of her skin at footsteps.

“Calm down; it’s me,” Lily said as she hopped back up on the ledge. “I just went to...go.”

“Oh.” Well, now she felt awkward. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Wanna switch?”

Emma was definitely too wired to sleep now. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”

She couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that had taken over her, though, and found herself jolting at every sound, from Lily’s snores to a bird taking flight. She’d never been more grateful for sunrise when the sky finally took on an orange hue. 

When Lily woke up shortly thereafter, they quickly packed up and headed off, snacking on their trail mix again. 

After a couple of uneventful hours and a stop at a stream for water, Lily paused. “How’s this tree look?” 

It was a little wide, but seemed tall enough. “Sure.”

She dropped her pack, like always, but tightened the clasp on her sword belt; she was spooked enough that she wanted it handy, and it didn’t get in her way. And then she climbed.

Once she got to the top of the canopy, she took a look across the arena. “Looks like a storm is coming,” she called down, seeing some dark clouds in the distance; knowing the Games, there was as good a chance of it being acid rain as normal. “But nothing else looks to be going on.”

A gust of wind blew across the trees then, but she still thought she heard the sound of another voice—not Lily’s.

“Lil? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Wanna keep moving?”

Part of her was screaming not to, but that wasn’t much of an option. “Okay; I’m coming down.”

But before she started her descent, she made what was possibly the smartest move of her life: she pulled the sword from its scabbard, and held tight as she slipped down.

Thank God she did. No sooner had her feet hit the ground than the  _ thwick  _ of a crossbolt hitting wood sounded above her.

Instinct took over and she swung out with her sword as she stepped forward. A cry came out when she connected with flesh, and Lily dropped the crossbow to hold her slashed forearm.

“I thought you said she trusted you,” Abigail sneered from where she stood, just behind Lily. She had a fierce-looking set of daggers, one in each hand and ready to strike.

“I thought she did,” Lily spat back, wincing at the sting of her cut.

Though she was gaping at the pair in front of her, it didn’t take long for Emma to piece everything together, and a pit formed in her stomach: Lily must have set this up when she disappeared last night. She led Emma right to this spot so they could ambush her. 

Weren’t they friends? God, she’d never felt so betrayed. 

Anguish quickly gave way to anger, though. “I did,” Emma growled. “Did you ever trust me?” She swung again with her blade, but Lily jumped back. “Was this a setup from the start?” Her next jab hit Lily in the thigh, bringing her to the ground.

There was a sudden stinging in Emma’s left shoulder; she looked to find one of Abigail’s daggers stuck in it, the girl within striking distance of using the other. But Emma didn’t give her a chance, and thrust forward with her sword, sinking it in the girl’s stomach and twisting. She hated the squelching noise it made, and tried to ignore the whimpers when she pulled it out.

Then she plucked out the dagger, tossed it aside, and turned back on Lily. She placed the tip of her blade not-so-gently under Lily’s chin, forcing the other tribute to look up at her. “Well?”

“I did, for a bit. Figured you’d be good for sponsor gifts. But I trusted her more.”

Emma huffed; of course—of course all anyone could see was what Emma was worth on paper. All the other Tributes had been clamoring to get in her good graces during training—surely, the daughter of two victors would be hard to pass up for a sponsor. Lily was the only one who hadn’t sought her out, which ironically drew Emma to her.

Logically, she knew the alliance wouldn’t have lasted; only one can win. But still—she thought she’d found a tiny glimmer of hope in the shit sandwich that was the games.

So, with a primal yell she didn’t know she possessed, she reared back and forced her sword into Lily’s chest.

The cannon fire came seconds later.

She didn’t waste any time in looting the girls’ bags and had already headed off when the cannon for Abigail finally sounded.

There were two more tributes out there and Emma would be damned if she wasn’t the one to win this thing.

That thought kept her going until she called it a night, hiding up in a tree; she wasn’t about to go stay out in the open all alone. Then—and only then—did she let the grief consume her. Angrily, she tore out the braid in her hair that Lily had made a few nights ago, throwing it into a messy bun instead. Sure, Emma had friends at home, but everything was different now—and Lily got that. 

Had. Had gotten it. Past tense. 

She silently cried herself to a fitful sleep until the chirping of birds woke her in the morning.

Before she left her spot the following morning, a flash of white caught her eye; a feather was stuck in some pine needles. It was too long to belong to any of the birds she’d seen in the arena; heck, it kind of looked like a swan’s, but no one had seen any of those in Pomem in years. Weird.

Still, she added it to her overstuffed pack. The bit of happiness she’d gotten from Lily’s friendship was as dead as she was; may as well take some joy from something else. She could almost hear her mom telling her that it was a symbol of luck or hope or something; as much as Emma didn’t put stock in those kinds of things, knowing that her mother did was enough.

And then she set off to end things. On her own.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Present day**

Four days in, Emma still wasn’t sure about all this. The concept of the games was still appalling, obviously, but she was unfortunately becoming a bit desensitized to that. It was the whole working-with-others thing she still wasn’t crazy about. 

She wasn’t ungrateful for the alliance—not by a long shot. Between Killian, Ariel, and Graham, she’d figured out the ropes pretty damn quick. As it turned out, her years of pretending to be in a loving relationship worked wonders on potential sponsors. (It also helped that Tamara was leading in kills. Unfortunately, August had fallen on day 2 to one of the tributes from Erebor—who, in turn, quickly became part of Tamara’s body count.) 

But she knew it was going to have to come to an end at some point, and that would be messy. She knew first-hand just how bad it could get. And, dammit, she actually liked them—especially Ariel, with her bubbly optimism and sweet demeanor. She was a stark contrast to Killian—all dark hair, good looks, and a cocky attitude that Emma could see right through—but Emma got along with him way too easily for comfort, and it was pretty clear to her that it was mostly a front, having seen through a few of its cracks already. Whatever had happened on the elevator last week still nagged at the back of her mind, on occasion.

There wasn’t enough downtime to get that answered, though. If she wasn’t keeping watch over things in the game center, she was either resting or hitting up a potential sponsor. She and Graham were trying to keep things balanced so that one of them was always in the center but god, it was exhausting. The games were 24/7, which meant their jobs were, too. 

Honestly, she was kind of surprised that she was still so busy, given that both Misthaven and Atlantica were down to one tribute each; William had fallen victim to a swarm of pixees—insects native to Neverland that were the product of normal bees getting into an ancient (and long-gone) supply of pixie dust—that had basically been bomb-dropped by one of the girls from Sherwood. But Tamara and Ursula had finally met up and were doing pretty well together. They managed to tag-team the boy from DunBroch, but that was the only move they had made on offense.

That said, there were still some times Emma had to calm herself down; when the image of Lily’s sneer flashed in her memory, or the way life had faded from her eyes. She could feel her magic creeping up her spine in those moments, threatening to let loose; it was only her experience in putting on a face for show (and several deep breaths) that held it back.

She had just watched the girls survive a run-in with some raining fireballs. They’d found shelter by a river and were using the water to soothe their injuries, but they needed burn medicine if they were going to get any farther. Even though it was only a few days in, the price of everything had already skyrocketed. That meant they’d have to hit up a well-endowed sponsor. Which meant she and Killian would have to take a trip. 

Early on, Graham had thought it would be a good idea to split up and maybe learn some tricks of the trade from the other pair of mentors. Emma, being the least outgoing of the two of them, consequently ended up with Killian. “Maybe his personality will rub off on you,” Graham ribbed. (Emma responded by punching him a little harder than playfully in the arm.)

“I know a retired doctor who can help us—might even be able to knock the price down,” Killian said, somewhat casually. He had spread himself over the length of the sofa across from Emma, almost as if he was putting himself on display; not for the first time, her thoughts drifted back to their conversation the other night. She was still pretty ashamed of what she’d accused him of, but then again, he was the one flirting with someone he shouldn’t have been. Not like she’d done anything to dissuade him, but, you know, he started it. As to why she flirted back...she didn’t have time to think about that.

She could have just chalked it up to him being him: he was easily one of the most handsome guys here, and he clearly took pride in (or at least relied on) his appearance—his hair was perfectly tousled and his clothes were expertly tailored. He thankfully hadn’t adopted the outlandish style of dress typical of the Capitol that some victors had taken to; he simply wore a black waistcoat over a light blue shirt with a navy jacket and slacks (of course, his shirt was unbuttoned a bit lower than it should have been, revealing some of the dark hair that covered his chest). 

She couldn’t help it if she was affected by him, given that most were (probably even Graham). And she shouldn’t be reading anything into the charms he used on her; those were probably the only thing keeping him alive. If there was one thing she knew, it was playing a role.

At the moment, he was picking at a small plate of finger food. She wasn’t sure if it was purely out of utility, or just to show off, but he was stabbing each morsel with his hook before eating. So, all told, she found Killian Jones both endearing and annoying.

Given his lack of a sense of urgency, Emma leaned back against the cushions and glanced around the room, taking stock of the rest of the fallout from the firestorm. Large, red Xs appeared over the screens of the tributes who’d succumbed; “Looks like that took out the last tributes from Agrabah and Erebor.” If she needed any further confirmation, Leroy, the mentor from Erebor, grumpily cursed and headed out of the room. Only one other tribute seemed to be tending to wounds, though. “The kid from Sherwood got hit good, too.”

Killian’s gaze left the cheese cube on his plate and flashed up. “Which one?”

“Alice, I think.” She hadn’t been paying enough attention to which one was which. “Not the one with the bow; the other one.”

Suddenly, Killian was on his feet, eyes darting around the room. “Goddamit, Eloise,” he muttered, then held his hand out to her. “Come on, let’s go.”

She ignored his hand and stood on her own, grabbing her sweater and bag. “Lead the way.” 

He took off at a brisk pace, but Emma glanced behind her before they left; Eloise was nowhere to be seen, so he must have figured she was already on it. If his urgency was in order to beat the other mentor to the punch, then Emma was definitely on board.

When they met with the sponsor—an older woman who was clearly well-preserved by the Capitol’s plastic surgeons—Emma turned on her well-rehearsed show face, which had quickly become second nature. It was a bit of a struggle to keep it on when Killian was making plans with the woman for later, but she followed his lead; he didn’t seem too distraught or disturbed by it, even if the woman’s garish black-and-white hair was far from what she’d consider attractive.

They were easily able to convince this Doctor Cruella to pony up the needed meds—more than enough for both their tributes—and, prizes in hand, headed back to the game center.

“I don’t mean to upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team.”

“Oh yeah?” she tossed back, feeling a bit giddy. The value on that medicine was probably astronomical, especially with how much they got.

“Aye. With your smarts and my good looks, we could run this thing.”

“We’ll see,” she teased back. With him, it was way too easy to forget that they were literally responsible for children’s lives—and, at the end of the day, would be fighting against each other at some point. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Honestly though, they got along much too well. She didn’t know why that was a problem, but it was.

(Probably because of what she knew she was going to do later.)

Thankfully, nothing had changed when they got back to the game center; night was falling and things typically calmed down then, though not always. But the day had been exciting enough.

“Want me to send those off?” Emma offered, nodding at the small canisters in Killian’s hand.

Oddly, he looked sheepish, like he was hiding something. Now what was he up to?

“Uh, yeah—send this one,” he said, putting one in her hand. “But I was going to offer this one to Sherwood.”

Emma narrowed her eyes and could feel her magic licking at her spine in reaction to her sudden spike of anger; she took a breath to tamp it down before she said anything. “I thought…” She was going to ask him about her earlier hypothesis, but that clearly had been wrong. “I thought those were both for our kids?”

“One is more than enough to get them healed and then some, both of them. If we’ve got more, we may as well help out another realm who’s struggling.”

As poor as Sherwood was, Eloise had actually been doing decently on the sponsor end of things—or, at least, better than usual. Still, Emma had to wonder what kind of angle Killian was playing; briefly, her mind flickered to their first conversation, and the way he was staring at Alice’s screen the other day. 

“You know we can’t save all of the kids, right? Our priority is supposed to be our realm.”

Killian rolled his eyes at her. “You think I don’t know that? Darling, I taught you that. But no one ever said there wasn’t room for a bit of compassion.”

Compassion hadn’t won either of them their games; all it got Emma was a few more bricks around her heart.

“Look, her mentor is MIA and we shouldn’t just leave her to the wolves,” he continued. “Consider it a small act of rebellion, if you must. We may get turned down anyways, but at least we tried.”

Emma huffed; he was definitely appealing to her motherly instincts, which she’d been trying to put on mute while here. But rebellion...she could always get behind that.

“Fine.” 

He didn’t say anything; just turned and crossed the center to the game makers’ office. She tossed her bag on the sofa and rushed to follow, which was probably unnecessary because he let her go first when they got to the door. 

Everything that went in had to be inspected, though everyone knew that was merely a formality—people had sent weapons through before and no one batted an eye. (Something she was counting on.)

She was about to knock on the door when it swung open, taking Emma by surprise. Even more timely, Eloise was leaving. The expression on her face was somewhere between smug and annoyed—or maybe her face was just always that way? Either way, her eyes skimmed over Emma on their way to Killian. 

He stepped around Emma and held out the ointment. “Got this for Alice, unless you already took care of it.” It was rare for a mentor to actually enter the room until the end, unless there was an issue of some sort. 

“No, I didn’t.” Eloise’s tone was cool and indifferent. 

“It’s yours, then.” Killian was oddly serious. 

Eloise glanced down at it, then back up at him. “Send it yourself.” And just as cooly walked away.

Killian sighed in what Emma assumed was frustration, closing his eyes and gripping the container. There was clearly a history there Emma didn’t know about.

“What was that?” she asked. Regardless of whatever their history was, it was odd that a mentor would act so indifferent in the face of a valuable gift.

“Nothing new,” Killian muttered, before shaking his head and stepping forward.

The medicine was quickly approved and they were both given the opportunity to attach a note; Emma scribbled out a quick encouragement while Killian wrote something equally brief. God, that kid was probably going to be so confused, getting a gift from another realm. But she’d definitely appreciate it.

They ended up back on the couches, watching as well-trained birds delivered the packages they sent. (Emma honestly didn’t want to know how they always found their tributes—it probably had to do with the chip each tribute was implanted with, but she wouldn’t put it past Olympus to have something more sinister going on.) It was hard not to smile at the excitement from all three girls when they were delivered, and even Killian let out a sigh of relief. 

“Rebellion feels good, eh?” he teased.

She chuckled back, but answered with “Don’t let them hear you say that too loud. That’s a cursed word here.” She was trying to joke but they both knew it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Aye, I know,” he said, leaning back against the cushions. “I just get so...tired of it.”

“The Games?”

“Yeah. The death, the control. The parts of my life that have to stay hidden. The lies.” 

She definitely understood that.

“I know you know what I’m talking about,” he said pointedly.

But she didn’t appreciate being called out, and her hackles rose at the accusation. “Do you?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Please. I’ve been around you two for nearly a week now.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but had no idea what to say. It was easier to fake their romance when they knew they had an audience, but around Killian, she didn’t have it in her to lie—not about that. 

But she could evade it pretty well. “Yeah, well, what about you and Eloise?”

His brow furrowed. “What about her?”

“Is she some spurned ex-lover?” It maybe wasn’t fair to throw that back at him—again—but if there was one thing the games had taught her, it was that you couldn’t fight fair.

“I thought we were past that,” he answered, sounding slightly more hurt than she’d have liked. “But...something along those lines.”

“Did you break her heart?” She didn’t know why she needed to know. She just did.

“It’s more complicated than that, but no,” he answered truthfully. Then she watched as his armor slip back into place as he sat up and threw a coquettish look her way. “Why—are you jealous?”

“No,” she said, way too quickly and completely unconvincingly. (She was. A little. Dammit.)

Thankfully, he just replied with a deep chuckle, before leaning close enough that she could feel his breath on her neck. “Darling, if you want to get close to me, all you have to do is ask. No need to use propriety as an excuse.”

She squeezed a fist as she felt her magic react to him, trying to hold it back—but still, a glass broke somewhere on the other side of the room. One of the stewards picked up the shards and looked around, confused, which was Emma’s cue to get out for a bit.

Hastily, she stood up and ran her hands down her skirts, hoping to shake off the extra static. “I’m gonna take a walk; think you can man the fort for a bit?”

Killian followed. “I should actually tap out; Cruella is waiting.” But he remained close to her. “Can I follow you out?”

“Sure, I guess,” she answered, then didn’t wait for him to follow her out of the center.

They headed down the corridor in silence, Emma trying her best to keep distance between them. The butterflies she’d been feeling in her stomach whenever they got close like this returned, but that was the first time she’d risked exposing her magic because of it. It was kind of aggravating, honestly, how much that was happening—and that she had no idea what the exact trigger was: was it him? Was it just being in Olympus, and therefore in closer proximity to Neverland and its magic? Or was it related to what she had planned for later? Regardless, she needed to calm down.

She started rubbing her arms, either from cold or nerves—she wasn’t sure—but Killian noticed right away.

“Love, you’re shivering; here, let me—” He started to take off his jacket before she interrupted him.

“No, I’m fine; I just left my sweater back there.”

“I could try to warm you up, if you’d like,” he offered, with that all-too-charming grin and a seductive quirk of his eyebrow. Even if she knew it was for show, she couldn’t deny: it worked.

And tempting as it sounded, that was the last thing she needed. “I’ll just go grab it. You go on ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“If you insist. Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Don’t have much choice, do we?”

She turned to head back—or to somewhere, just to walk—but then Killian grabbed her hand as she retreated. She wasn’t expecting it, and another shock let out, this time jolting him.

Shit.

Most of the time, she could play it off as static, but when she looked back at him, there was a wide-eyed expression of recognition on his face, first as he stared at where he was holding her forearm, then as he looked up at her. He knew.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “I won’t; you have my word,” was his solemn reply. “Especially if you don’t repeat what we said earlier.”

“I won’t.”

He nodded. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Bye.”

They couldn’t get away from each other fast enough.

She ended up pacing the long hallway for a bit until she’d calmed down enough to go back in, but she knew she wouldn’t make it much longer; gods, sometimes she wished she had one of those magic-blocking cuffs, so she didn’t have to worry about being found out. At least one of the perks to being stuck in this castle was the fantastic baths and easy access to alcohol; even if it was the middle of the night, she’d have no trouble getting her hands on a glass of wine and a long, hot soak. But she had one thing to do first.

She slipped back into the game center relatively unnoticed; each of the few realms left had representation, but Ariel hadn’t yet arrived. And Emma didn’t know if she could face her once she did. She’d just have to hope the kids would be okay for a few minutes without anyone.

Her bag and sweater were still on the couch where she’d left them. She slipped her hand deep into her tote, feeling the smooth wood of the small hatchet she and Graham obtained earlier that day. What could she say? They’d learned from the best. They’d been saving it for the right moment, and she didn’t know if she’d get another.

Alliances couldn’t last forever. She knew that better than anyone. Which meant it was now or never for Tamara, especially with only 7 tributes left.

The door to the gamemaker office was ajar, so she slid in. “I have another sponsor gift,” she told the official at the desk, and pulled out the weapon.

The woman’s sterile expression turned stern as she inspected the tool. “I’m going to have to get this approved; hold on a minute.” Glancing over her shoulder, she called out, “Mr. Hatter? Can you take a look at this?”

The head gamemaker, Jefferson Hatter, was in the middle of a conversation with Sidney Glass, and held a finger up. Emma could hear him tell the other man, “We’ll make the announcement tomorrow. Excuse me,” before coming her way.

Jefferson assessed the weapon with a careful eye, pulling and tapping on it a bit to make sure nothing was concealed. “Looks fine to me. It can go.” Emma smiled to thank him, but he was already gone, off to deal with some other aspect of the games. She both loathed and envied his job.

“Alright, we’ll get this out. Did you want to add a note?”

“Yes, please.” The woman offered Emma a slip of paper and pen. She thought about it for a moment, and then began writing.

_ You know what to do. —E _

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Alice screamed. 

Logically, she knew that was a terrible idea and a sure-fire way to draw an enemy. But, she figured, if anyone was actually close enough to hear her, then they were also caught in the firestorm and, well...they weren’t exactly her problem anymore. 

So she screamed, and she ran, trying as hard as she could to outpace the heat that was chasing her heels and nipping at her skin. In a rare moment of clarity, she’d pulled her shirt over her mouth and nose to prevent breathing in smoke, but the only other thing she could do was get away—fast. 

She ran and ran and ran, focusing only on the feel of the forest floor under her feet until suddenly, the world changed and she had to throw her hands up to stop from running face-first into a tree—which she promptly collapsed upon, coughing and wheezing to get her air back. 

She also may have vomited. But it served her right for thinking that any berries she’d found here would be edible; those had been giving her fits since last night. 

When she was finally able to breathe properly, she took stock of whatever she could. A glance behind her showed the fire was far enough away that she was in the safe zone—but how she’d gotten that far away, she wasn’t sure. 

She shivered, which was awful for two reasons: one, it made her suddenly very aware of the burned skin on the backs of her arms and legs; and two, it sent a static shock through her body that answered her question: her magic had carried her to safety. 

Dammit. She’d been doing so well. Er, rather, as good as could be expected when the very air sent her magic sparking.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to will it away, to calm it down, to press it back inside that pool of power deep within. But it was begging for release; had been since she got here, really. She’d always thought it was a tall tale that Neverland was filled with magic, but she’d felt it ever since she arrived—that tingle in her spine, the spark at her fingertips. She’d been doing as best she could to keep it in but it’d finally had enough, apparently. 

“Bloody hell,” she murmured to herself as more sparks fell from her hand, landing near the raw skin at her ankles and then making her hiss in pain. 

God. Fuck everything. 

It didn’t matter that she was still in the middle of the arena, with death and threats all around her; she fell to the ground, put her head in her hands, and cried. Well, sobbed. She’d been holding it all in for days now and was done. 

Just because she had genes that had won the games didn’t mean she was emotionally prepared to be here.

That, and she just kept seeing the way the boy from her father’s realm swelled up when he got stung by the pixees, coughing and sputtering as he tried to breathe but was going into anaphylactic shock. She hadn’t wanted to kill him; she just wanted his backpack. She didn’t know he was allergic. 

God, what had she gotten herself into? 

“ _ You’re the cleverest person I know, Starfish _ ,” her papa had told her before she’d left Olympus. “ _ Trust your instincts and be smart _ .” She was trying, but was it enough? 

And now it felt like her skin was on fire and she was thirsty and what good were those heavy clouds in the sky if it wasn’t going to rain? She could bloody feel the static from the storm and that just added to her tension.

Her tears did nothing to soothe her skin but did wonders for her emotionally. 

When she was finally spent (or dehydrated; it was hard to tell), she took another long moment to look up at the sky. It’d been painfully obvious to her right away that the stars it showed at night were artificial; her papa had taught her to navigate by the constellations but there were none she recognized. 

Now, though, all she saw was a haze, smoke blending into storm clouds. She needed to get back on the move and find a source of water. The spring she’d been frequenting was probably now nothing more than a steaming crater in the middle of burned-out wood. 

Hauling herself to her feet was, well, a feat, and the more she moved, the more her skin stung and ached. She had a middling knowledge of herbal plants that had helped with the pixee stings (even if she hadn’t gotten the brunt of that one, they still hadn’t been keen on her disturbing their home), but nothing to help with burns, save for cool water. (At least she knew what dreamshade looked like and to stay the hell away. After what happened to her uncle, Papa had made sure of that.)

Which made her search all the more urgent. There was still a little left in her canteen but she knew she’d need that to drink. That meant her only option was to keep pressing on until she found some.

Eventually, she crossed a tiny stream that looked to be reasonably clear; it’d have to do. The cool water helped but wasn’t a complete balm—but what else was she going to do? At least she’d be able to keep the wounds clean and hopefully avoid infection.

There was a thick copse of trees just a few feet away; once she’d finished tending her burns and refilling her canteen (after many long, long gulps of water), she shuffled over and, after checking it over for dreamshade and finding none, collapsed inside it. Night was coming and she definitely needed to rest.

She’d just gotten kind of comfortable when a quiet tweeting started outside her makeshift shelter. Ugh, she didn’t want to get up again. But that sound could only mean one thing: a sponsor gift.

She’d gotten one earlier in the games, after a day or so without food: just a loaf of bread, but one she recognized as coming from her favorite bakery back home, with orange marmalade baked in. It was definitely a rare treat for the games, and possibly undeserved, but it’d given her the energy to keep going. (Which was when she found the spring.)

She poked her head out of her enclosure to see a small container sitting a few feet away, a deceptively slight songbird sitting nearby. It flew off once it saw it’d gotten her attention, back to wherever it was Olympus released the carrier birds from. With a wince, she got up, practically crawled the distance to the gift, then moved back inside as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t a large container, but it looked expensive. A note was taped on top; she peeled it off first and was both surprised and not to see that it didn’t have any words: just a small doodle of a starfish. Which meant this came directly from her papa. “Thank you,” she said into the night, hoping he’d see or hear her (and wishing she could say more).

She stashed the note in her pocket and fiddled with the jar to open it, taking way too long to figure out that the top twisted off, revealing a creamy white substance. She brought it to her face to sniff it—it had a vaguely floral scent—but leaned a bit too close to it and clumsily stuck her nose right in the stuff. Woops.

Almost immediately, though, she felt a cooling sensation on her skin. Did that mean…? She didn’t waste any more time in thought and took a modest amount on her fingers, then spread it on the raw skin of her opposite arm.

The effect was instantaneous, and she sighed in relief. For the first time in hours, that part of her body didn’t feel like it was still aflame. Quickly, she applied the ointment on all her other burns, careful to not use it all up but thrilled to finally feel better.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she called out again. She didn’t know exactly how, but she could tell her papa was watching. Their last hug—in private, before the hovercopters took them to the arena—was impressed in her memory, and she could sometimes still feel the fatherly kiss he’d left on her temple. (Her mother...well, she’d shown as much affection as she was capable of, but it was definitely one of the more awkward hugs in her lifetime.)

God, what would her parents think of her now? Logically, she knew they’d be the last people to judge her, but she’d killed a person now; the pain in the boy’s dying screams would probably play in her dreams forever. Hell, it was starting to again; she put her hands on her ears to try to block it out, though it did little. This was no place to dwell on that, though; with any luck—as morbid as the idea was—she’d have a whole lifetime to. But she had to keep going forward, not looking back. 

Since she had a moment to breathe now, she pulled the bag into her lap and stashed the remaining ointment in one of the smaller pockets. Goodness, this really was a great bag: her jacket was a tattered, melted mess, but this thing barely had a scorch mark on it. She knew that kind of material existed—her realm was responsible for textiles, after all—but civilians never saw anything like this. Olympus bastards, hogging all the good stuff. 

Her brief moment of jealousy was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn, so she dug out the blanket the pack had come with, set the bag aside, and tucked herself in; it got bloody cold at night and the blanket just might be her favorite thing. 

She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep when suddenly, it was daylight. Crap. Yeah, she needed the sleep, but that meant she missed the announcement of who had passed away during the previous day; she thought she heard a couple of cannons in the mess of the forest fire but she hadn’t encountered anyone since the boy from Atlantica, so she had no idea who it would be. 

Hopefully not Robyn. She hadn’t seen her, either; they’d been on opposite sides of the Apple Tree and had probably gone in opposite directions. From a logical standpoint, Alice’s odds were better if Robyn wasn’t still in the game—she was fierce with that bow, if she’d gotten one—but she liked her too much to wish she was gone.

And that kiss...her lips tingled at the thought.

(And her heart raced and butterflies flitted in her stomach and all those cheesy cliches that turned out to be cliches for a reason. She was Killian Jones’ daughter; of course she was a hopeless romantic.)

But following that train of thought into daydreams wasn’t going to help her at all. She stood and started to pack up, and noticed that her burns didn’t hurt anywhere near as much; a glance at her forearm showed it was mostly healed. Thank bloody goodness. 

After getting her blanket put away and a quick sip of water, she was in the middle of applying more of the burn cream when trumpets sounded overhead—the ones that usually accompanied the midnight death announcement. God, she’d been more tired than she realized if she managed to sleep through those blaring alarms.

“Attention tributes,” Sidney Glass announced. “There has been a recent change to the rules.” 

Alice tilted her head and looked at the sky, even though she couldn’t see anything but foliage; that never happened this late in the games. 

He continued, “If the last two tributes remaining are from the same district, they will both be crowned victors. Thank you, and remember: all magic comes with a price.”

Alice dropped the container of ointment. Seriously? If Robyn was still alive, they could go home together?

Blindly, she ran out from her hiding place and called out for the other girl. Not that she was going to get a reply, but that was her immediate reaction. Thankfully, no one else was around to hear her outburst, but the images of the remaining tributes were up on the screen—and Robyn’s was still there, right next to Alice’s. She couldn’t hold back her grin. (At least, not until her magic sparked her again.)

It looked like Phrygia still had two tributes in, too, so that was probably the most worrisome competition, though she thought she’d seen the girls from Atlantica and Misthaven together at some point. 

She was getting ahead of herself; would Robyn actually stand a better chance with her around than she would alone? What if she was already in an alliance? What if she didn’t actually want to share a win with her? (She didn’t think that would be the case, but it didn't take much for Alice’s mind to spiral.)

Whatever. It couldn’t hurt to try to find her. Not that she had any idea where to look, but she’d be damned if she didn’t give it a go. “ _ A man who doesn’t fight for what he wants deserves what he gets _ ,” her papa always said. “ _ Well, woman _ ,” he’d add, smirking.

Once she packed up, she headed in the direction of the central lake in the arena; at the very least, it would be a starting point, and with any luck, Robyn would have the same idea. 

She’d hardly gone a few meters when something on the forest floor caught her eye: a feather, white as snow. “That’s odd,” she said to herself. “There aren’t any birds here that look like that.” She’d seen all manner of bluebird, jay, and wren, but nothing so pure and bright as this. It reminded her of a swan’s, but this place was oddly devoid of waterfowl. 

Regardless, she tucked it in her pocket and set back off, imagining her movements were as graceful as that bird’s (and that, if the occasion called for it, she could be as fierce as one).

A couple hours later, she was near the lake, and on high alert; any open area was dangerous, especially this late in the games. Her tattered jacket was tied around her waist and her hair was in a messy braid; the heat was starting to become oppressive, but there was a charge to the air that kept reacting with her magic and making her wonder if a storm was coming.

She was staring at the sky, trying to figure out what the clouds were saying, when she was suddenly flying towards them. Her ascent peaked, and then she yelped as she fell back to earth, only to be jolted to a halt in midair by something that was as soft as it was constraining. She started to fight against it, looking for a weak point, and found many useless holes—it was a net.

“If you’ve got any last words, say them now,” a familiar voice shouted intimidatingly.

“Robyn? Is that you?” she answered, twisting in her restraints to see out.

“Alice?” Robyn called back, now in disbelief. “Shit. Hold on—I’ll get you out of there.”

Alice held still, not really sure what she was waiting for, when she heard the whizz of something flying towards her, followed by her actually falling to the ground; she was higher up than she’d thought and the wind was knocked out of her.

She laid there, taking gulping breaths of air, when Robyn swam into her blurry vision. “Oh my god, are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

“I’m fine,” Alice coughed, unconvincingly, but took one more deep breath before that was closer to the truth. “Where the hell did you get a fishing net?”

“It was in my pack,” Robyn shrugged as she helped Alice up to sitting. “It must have been meant for someone from Atlantica.”

“Okay, but then how did you learn to do...whatever that was with it?”

She gave a devilish smirk that set those butterflies alight in Alice’s belly. “Remember Alexandra, from school?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how we had that feud that seemed to end very suddenly?”

She didn’t—Alice was definitely on the periphery when it came to classmate drama—but she could pretend. “Uh-huh.”

“Let’s just say when I got my revenge on her for stealing my first girlfriend, she spent a lot of time thinking about it. While suspended in midair.”

“Damn,” she sighed, but she was honestly more fixated on the ‘first girlfriend’ part of that statement. She couldn’t lie—she’d been worried Robyn might have just been placating her, or getting in some final kicks when Alice stole her kiss; she hadn't been certain Robyn liked girls, too. So at least that was one less thing for her jumbled mind to be anxious about.

And then any other fears were put to rest when Robyn launched herself at her in a bruising hug. “God, I’m so glad I found you,” she murmured into her neck, and Alice didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around her, too. She closed her eyes at how perfect they seemed to fit together, even with the awkward way they were sitting. 

“Me too,” she whispered back.

“You heard the announcement?” Robyn asked without pulling away.

“Aye.”

“Wanna go home together?”

“Oh, fuck yes.”

Robyn giggled. “Then let’s do this.”

They helped each other to standing, brushed off the forest detritus, and then stared at each other for a long, charged moment, somewhere between intense and awkward (probably both). Because all Alice could think about, yet again, was the kiss, and if the way Robyn was licking her lips was anything to go by, she probably was too. Should she try it again? Was the ball in Robyn’s court? Should she not even be fucking worrying about it because they were literally in a fight to the death? 

At least Robyn didn’t seem as unsure as Alice, and cut through the thick air between them with a “Let’s go.”

Alice fell into step behind her, keeping an eye on both the path and the sky; the clouds were continuing to darken.

“What’s your count?” Robyn asked as they picked their way across the arena, vaguely in the direction of the lake. 

She didn’t need to ask for clarification, and shuddered again at the memory of the boy’s dying screams. “One. You?”

“Same,” she said. “It’s how I got the bow; off one of the kids from Arendelle.”

“Did you get them with the net, too?”

“No; they tried to shoot at me and missed. Turns out my aim is good even without the bow.”

There was a hint of regret in her voice that Alice could definitely identify with. She jogged ahead a bit and reached for Robyn’s hand, giving it what she hoped was an encouraging squeeze. Robyn looked down at their joined hands, then up at her, and the shy smile she gave was just a bit of sunshine in this gray day.

But then a big, fat raindrop hit her nose, making her gasp in surprise. Then Alice felt one on the back of her neck, dripping down her shirt—and it was cold.

They could hear drops falling on the dense foliage in a crescendo around them, and suddenly, they were caught in a downpour. 

“There’s a cave nearby we can hide in!” Robyn shouted, having to over the volume of the storm. 

Thunder rumbled overhead. “Lead the way!” Alice yelled back.

Robyn clenched her hand around Alice’s before letting go, and then they took off in a sprint back the way they’d came. They darted through the clearing where the net still sat in a heap on the ground, then turned and headed in the opposite direction from where Alice had come, hopping over fallen logs and trying to keep their footing over increasingly muddy terrain.

Alice was starting to shiver, but Robyn hadn’t slowed, so she couldn’t either. Her magic was still reacting to the static in the air, so she had to keep that tamped down, too, lest it carry her away again—and they needed to stay together.

Thunder and lightning continued to build as they went, and it felt like they were running towards the center of the storm. As if in confirmation, a bolt of lightning struck a tree not 100 yards from where they were; both girls screamed, but Alice managed to stay upright. Robyn, though, lost her footing and fell forward, then cried out again.

Alice caught up to her and offered a hand to help her up—but Robyn didn’t take it. “My ankle—I think I twisted it,” Robyn hissed.

So Alice did the next logical thing: she knelt down, got an arm under Robyn, and helped her back to standing. “How far away are we?”

“It’s just up there,” she nodded in the direction they were headed. “There’s a big rock formation; you can’t miss it.”

Much slower, they continued on, Alice taking extreme care with each step. It seemed to take forever, but eventually, there it was, almost looking like it had been cut perfectly from the overhanging rock—which it probably had.

It was deeper than it looked from the outside; more than enough to keep them dry. Alice carried Robyn to the far wall and helped her sit down, before both were finally able to catch their breaths.

“At least it’s not acid rain,” she quipped. Robyn gave her a tight smile back, but it quickly morphed to a grimace when she tried to move her leg. “Here; let me check it.”

Alice carefully stepped around Robyn and crouched down near her right ankle, the one that was injured. The light was dim this far in, and though she knew she could illuminate the space with her magic, she didn’t want to expose herself like that just now, if at all. 

“I’m going to touch it, okay?” she said, hoping that if she gave some warning, it’d hurt less. Robyn just nodded at her.

Gingerly, she brushed her fingers against the ankle, watching Robyn’s reaction. It didn’t change, but what was under her touch was far from what she expected. 

They were both soaked to the bone, but her skin was a different kind of wet, almost slimy.

“Oh, no,” she cursed, then jumped up to get closer to the light.

“What is it?” Robyn asked, but her voice was weak.

Alice only got close enough to the light to see what was on her fingers, but it was as she feared: blood. “Fuck.”

She ran back and, without thinking, created a ball of light in her palm; she needed to see what was going on.

And it was worse than expected: a long, jagged gash ran up the side of Robyn’s shin, and it was still trickling blood; Alice was no expert, but it looked deep, and probably had something to do with the ashy she could now see on Robyn’s face.

“You’re bleeding, badly,” she told her. “Do we have anything to sew it up?”

“W-wait,” Robyn stammered, as if she didn’t even register what she’d just been told. “You have magic?”

Alice gave a sheepish glance toward her hand, then back up at Robyn through her lashes. “Uh, yes?”

Robyn just gaped and blinked at her a few times, then her eyes rolled back into her head and she passed out.

Bloody fuck.


	5. Round and round, two by two, we run around the rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Rules" by Jayme Dee
> 
> only two more chapters after this!!

Fucking hell; was this actually happening? Or was this a sleep-deprived hallucination? (He’d only gotten a brief nap in last night—he forgot what Cruella’s...appetite was like.)

But the red X over Ursula’s screen was no dream: she was dead. And at the hand of her supposed ally. 

Killian’s vision took on the color of the signal of her death, and his eyes darted to the accomplice, who looked appropriately sheepish on the other side of the room. 

Ariel tried to stop him, but he easily shook off her hand from his bicep. He hadn’t felt this kind of betrayal in years.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he spat in Emma’s face, not afraid to crowd her personal space. “What in all the realms were you thinking?”

“I’m doing whatever it takes to keep my tribute alive,” she hissed back. “You should know; it’s what you told me to do!”

“You of all people should know better than to pull something like this!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t think I don’t remember your games, Nolan.”

“It had to happen at some point!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Graham interrupted, trying to slip between them and put some distance there, but Killian was too riled up and kept pressing forward. “Enough; both of you.”

Killian tried to take a breath to calm himself, but it didn’t work and instead came out as an exaggerated huff. There was a fire behind Emma’s eyes and it colored her cheeks pink as she stood there heaving, too.

“Why don’t you both take a walk outside to cool down?” Ariel suggested; Killian hadn’t even noticed her come up behind him. “We need to be heading out anyways.” Mentors without tributes in the game weren’t allowed to stay in the game center—which was the other reason he was angry. Not that anyone needed to know that.

Without a word, Killian turned on his heel and left, throwing open the doors to the center so they’d hopefully slam shut behind him; it would have been cathartic. But no—one of them was caught from closing by Emma as she stormed out behind him, leaving the other to shut with a dull, unsatisfying thud.

“Seriously? I thought this was a competition; you can’t be that upset that I took whatever edge I could get,” she said, continuing the argument from behind him. He honestly had planned on going out for a walk, but if she wanted to argue, then fine—he’d argue.

He turned back around and marched back toward her. “No, but I can take issue with the fact that that edge was the sharp end of an axe, and that it ended up in my tribute’s back!”

“Oh, please; you would have done the same,” she threw back.

“Actually, no,” he said coolly; her visible recoil was somewhat satisfying. If the kids had turned on each other, that’d have been one thing, but he hadn’t planned on sabotaging the alliance. 

Satisfied that he’d won the debate, or at least rendered her speechless, he started to head down the corridor again.

“Well, at least your precious Sherwood tributes are still in.”

He stopped in his tracks; God, she just knew all the buttons to press, didn’t she? “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he tossed over his shoulder, not daring to look at her.

“What, is one of them your lovechild or something?” she sneered. 

A chill went down his spine; did she know? He faced her again, glaring. 

“Eloise’s daughter, is that it?” She was smirking, clearly thinking she was joking.

“Stop. Talking,” he warned, stomping back into her space. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“Holy shit; really?” she whispered. Bollocks; he hadn’t meant to confirm it. But there it was. “Is that what you were talking about on the elevator?”

“Aye,” he said on a breath, though the damage was probably done; Olympus had eyes and ears everywhere. “So as a parent, I’d hope you’d get it.”

“I do,” she replied, suddenly solemn. 

“Imagine it was your child in there, and you could do almost nothing to save them. How would you handle that?”

“I...I have no…”

“Exactly.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered overhead, and he could see the emotional distress on her face and the spark of magic at her fingertips.

“Calm down and get that under control,” he murmured, annoyed. “Lest neither of us make it through the night.” He was incredibly curious at how she’d managed to keep her magic a secret; he knew having that part of her stifled played into why Eloise was the way she was, and if Alice managed to get out of this, the same fate would likely lay ahead of her—she knew better than to put it on display, but the Games had a way of bringing it out in even the most composed person, which Alice wasn’t. 

But if Emma let that run loose—and he was caught aiding her—it wouldn’t end well; civilians found with magic were rarely allowed to live, and this was unprecedented.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; it took a moment, but the light stopped flickering and the static in the air dissipated; he could actually see the hair on his exposed forearm relax.

“Good. Now, if you excuse me, I need to watch the rest of the games from my quarters. Where I can’t do anything.” For what he hoped was the last time, he turned and left.

“Are you going to the Gala?” she called out as he walked away.

He didn’t stop, but answered back, “Don’t have much choice, do we?” And then turned the corner to the elevator lobby, out of her sight.

He nearly broke the elevator panel with his hook with how hard he hit it to call a lift, but his blood was still simmering (and, honestly, Olympus could afford to replace it, so he didn’t much care).

Thankfully, he was the only one on board, and was finally able to let out a long sigh once the doors closed, scrubbing his hand along his face as he leaned back against the wall. In all his years doing this, he’d never been so let down by a fellow mentor. It was probably the shock of the moment and the adrenaline of the games, but Killian was also pretty damn good at holding a grudge, and he wasn’t sure he’d let this go anytime soon.

To make matters worse, he had trusted her. Hell, he’d had some other sorts of thoughts about her, too. He’d thought she was a kindred spirit, and she still was, in some ways; but now, he just had to hope that the fact he knew her secret was enough to counteract her knowing his.

The elevator dinged once they reached his floor, and he shuffled out. At least he didn’t have any more appointments, and likely wouldn’t until after the Gala, whenever that would be. 

He made a beeline for the mini bar in their quarters and poured himself a hefty amount of rum. Then he collapsed on the sofa, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the monitor, bringing up a live feed of the arena. He may have lost access to the gaming center, but he at least could still watch the same video streams.

He clicked through a couple of channels until he found the one he needed: the image of Alice and Robyn hiding in that cave.

And he’d keep his eyes locked on this channel until the very end.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Robyn came to consciousness coughing, gasping for air and spitting out water. “Wha,” she tried to say, but it only led to another round of coughing. 

There was a supportive hand on her back and another on her arm, but it wasn’t until she could finally breathe and blinked a few times that she remembered what all had happened: finding Alice, running through the storm, fucking up her leg, and oh yeah—Alice apparently having magic.

“I passed out, didn’t I?” she deduced; that was an awful lot to process in a short span of time. Or she’d lost too much blood. Either were likely.

“Yeah, you did; I thought getting you to drink might wake you up, but I didn't realize it’d be so violent. Sorry,” Alice explained, the worried, sheepish expression on her face plainly visible in the light coming from her palm.

“It’s fine,” Robyn tried to say with a shrug, but didn’t quite have the energy for that, so it came out more like a wince. God, she felt embarrassed; who cared that they were in the middle of a fight to the death—she made herself look like an absolute idiot in front of her crush.

Somewhere, her mother would probably be scolding her on priorities, but they were all pretty skewed right now, so...whatever.

“God, you look pale,” Alice continued on, cupping Robyn’s cheek in her other hand. “How do you feel?”

“Tired, sore, hungry; about the same as I’ve felt for the last few days.” She tried to prop herself up against the wall better, but the movement aggravated her leg, making her wince. “But that kind of kills.”

Alice (adorably) chewed on her bottom lip for a minute, clearly debating something—something that had to do with the gash on Robyn’s leg that was sluggishly bleeding. “Do you trust me?” she finally asked.

“Of course,” Robyn said without thinking.

“Okay.” Alice scooted herself from Robyn’s side to near her calf, then used the light in her palm to inspect the injury again. It was kind of mesmerizing, the light; it wasn’t steady and solid, like the kind from a bulb—it pulsed and danced like light reflecting off water. It was just so...Alice. 

And then it got brighter and warmer; Robyn could feel the heat of it on her injured leg, and probably should have looked away, but couldn’t—especially once she could tell what Alice was doing. 

“Wait!” she shouted, reaching for Alice's forearm to stop her. “You do that and you’ll be completely exposed.” It was rare anyone found to have magic got out of the Games alive; it generally placed a target on them; and right now, it’d be putting one on Robyn, too. 

“I think I already am,” she said dryly, glancing at her hand. “May as well put it to good use.”

That, Robyn couldn’t argue, unfortunately, so she just nodded back. Alice did the same, then focused her attention on the leg, both palms hovering over the gash.

It was impossible to look away as Alice worked. First, both hands glowed even brighter than before, and Robyn could feel the surge of warmth against her skin. Then, her leg began to sting—but, she realized, that was the first sensation she’d felt since they got here.

A weird pop happened somewhere inside her ankle as whatever had been dislocated went back into place, and then muscle and skin began to knit themselves back together; that was the only way she could describe the way it felt—like she was getting stitches, but without the needles or thread.

It had barely taken any time, but she’d been so lost in a trance as Alice worked her magic that it was more than a tiny jolt when the light in her palms went out. “There, that should do it,” Alice announced, looking over her handiwork. “There’s a bit of a scar, but hopefully shouldn’t be too noticeable.”

Robyn wiggled her toes inside her boots, then rotated her ankle to test it out. “Feels pretty good.”

“Good,” Alice said, beaming back.

“But there’s one thing still missing.”

Alice’s eyes went fearfully wide. “Oh no; what?”

Apparently, Robyn’s flirtatious tone hadn’t hit its mark. “Kiss it better?” If Alice’s magic was going to get them killed, she was at least gonna get her kicks in while she could.

A shy grin took over Alice’s face that was so adorable, it made Robyn’s heart stutter. She held Robyn’s gaze as she knelt over and pressed a careful kiss to the new scar on her calf; Robyn couldn’t hold back her own grin.

“Did that help?”Alice asked as she pulled away, still smirking.

“Mostly,” Robyn replied, but now she was feeling bold—and so, it seemed, was Alice. She pulled her legs close so she could move; her hurt leg was still a little tender, but infinitely better. “There’s one more way you can help,” she said, shifting herself to where Alice sat, “if you’re up for it.”

“I probably am.”

She didn’t waste a moment, pressing forward to kiss the smile off Alice’s lips—and Alice met her in the middle. There was none of the panic of their first kiss, when they didn’t know if they’d get another one; even now, there was still a chance they wouldn’t, but at least they had a moment to breathe and Robyn fully intended to take advantage of it. The cave wasn’t the softest place, but Alice’s lips certainly made up for it.

After one of the more memorable makeout sessions in Robyn’s life, they were catching their breath while they leaned against the back wall again, curled up under their blankets and huddled close as the air temperature dropped. 

“God, this reminds me of recess when we were kids,” Alice said, giggling a bit.

“How many girls did you makeout with when we were kids?” Robyn teased.

“Oh, not any,” she brushed off. “Not ‘til I was a bit older,” she added with a wink. “No; it reminds me of the days it rained and they wouldn’t let us stay in.”

“Ugh, that was the worst,” she replied. “It’s amazing we all made it out of grade 5 without dying of hypothermia.” 

“You don’t think we will tonight, will we?”

“I promise to keep you warm.”

Alice gave her a stunning grin that she’d definitely inherited from her dad; it was so obvious, now that she knew. Part of her desperately wanted to ask about how that was a thing, but they’d probably made enough dramatic revelations for Olympus and its citizens to eat up for one day.

“So...who  _ was  _ your first kiss?” Robyn asked instead. 

“Ugh, no; that’s embarrassing,” Alice protested, her nose scrunching up adorably in disgust.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Fine,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “It was Phillip Rose.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, and it was terrible.”

“Oh, I know—he was mine, too!”

“What? You’re kidding!”

“I wish I was.”

“Same!”

The ensuing fit of giggles stole what little air Robyn had managed to reclaim from earlier; it didn’t help that she was still a bit light headed from blood loss, but it was getting better.

“God,” Alice finally gasped. “He’s never getting snogged again, is he?”

“Probably not.”

“Sorry, Phillip.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” she agreed, laughing. 

The storm continued outside but neither of them really noticed as they gossiped about things back home and stole kisses. If it weren’t for the fact they were hanging out in a cave and had blood on their hands, literally and metaphorically, it would have been easy to imagine it as just another sleepover back home. 

It really sucked that this was the way they were getting close, but Robyn knew she wouldn’t have done anything about her crush in any normal situation. Almost as if she could read her thoughts, Alice grew serious and asked, “So...you really weren’t lying to Sidney? About...me?”

“Of course not. I think you’ll find that I’m a terrible liar.”

“But...we’ve hardly ever talked until now. I was shocked you even knew my name.”

“Everyone knows your name.”

“Maybe, but not because of me—just because of my mum.”

“Yeah, probably; but I’m sure you’re making a name for yourself now.”

“I guess.”

“But yeah, I’ve always seen you; ever since sex ed in grade 6. But I had a reputation to maintain and whatnot; keeping up with the popularity contests and all that.”

“So you just do what you think will make you cool?”

“I did, yeah.”

“Well, that’s silly.”

“Yeah, it is,” she agreed. “I think I’ve always known that, but it’s only gotten more apparent now.”

“If we get home, what do you think you’ll do?”

Robyn was taken a bit aback; she really hadn’t been looking that far ahead. “Uh, I’m not sure yet. But I don’t think I could ever go back to my old life.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I could either.”

Robyn tilted her head in confusion. “But you’ve always been...you. That’s why I’ve always liked you from afar—you just seemed happy to do your own thing.”

“I have, yeah, but part of me was always scared of not being able to connect with anyone, so I just...didn’t try. Living with my mum in the Village didn’t really help, since there weren’t any kids there or anything, and once I started school, there was always that level of resentment because I was the Victor’s kid. Nicholas and Ava were the only ones I’d ever gotten close with.”

“Yeah, but look at how close you are, and look at my so-called friends—none of them would have even considered stepping up like you did.”

Alice was blushing now and it was fucking adorable.

“The world needs more people like you,” Robyn told her, and now it was her turn to cup the other girl’s face. And then she went ahead and kissed her, for good measure. “Okay, my turn: when did you first get a crush on me?”

The blush returned twofold. “Oh god; it’s been ages.”

“Come on; tell me.”

She sighed, but laughed a bit. “Do you remember that dance we had in grade 7?”

“Yeah; that was the first one we were allowed to go to.”

“Mhmm. I was definitely wallflowering, but then you were in front of me and just...grabbed my hand and pulled me in. Even if it didn’t last, it was nice to be included. And then, well, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you. The more I saw, the more I liked.”

“Even if I was just trying to be one of the cool kids?”

“You said it yourself—you’re an awful liar. You may have had them fooled, but I could see all your good parts. You’re much sweeter than you give yourself credit for.”

Now it was Robyn’s turn to blush. “Can I make a confession?”

“Duh.”

“I grabbed you at that dance on purpose.”

Alice's grin returned fiercely and stunningly, and then her lips were back on Robyn’s, and there they stayed for a good long while. 

It rained through the afternoon, all night, and well into the next day. At some point, Alice lit a fire with her magic, keeping them warm and toasty. They stripped off their wet outerthings so they could dry, as well as emptied their bags to make sure nothing was damaged (and so they could cuddle close under Alice’s blanket).

She was fluffing it out when a small, white thing floated out and landed on the stone floor next to Robyn. “What’s this?” she asked, picking it up.

Alice sat back down and wrapped the blanket around both of their shoulders, leaving her arm spread across Robyn’s to hold them close together. “A feather. I found it right before I found you—or, well, was trapped by you, or whatever.”

Robyn winced. “Still sorry.”

Alice shrugged against her. “It’s fine. It’s...memorable.”

Robyn just scoffed; a meetcute in the middle of a melee. Only Alice could see it that way.

“Anyways,” she continued, “I figured it had to be a bit of luck or something. It was too pretty to pass by.”

“It is,” Robyn agreed. “My mom will find them randomly from time to time, too—always on the hard days.”

“Well, that definitely defines the last few.”

“And she always manages to get through them. I think you’re onto something there.”

“Let’s hope,” Alice sighed, then pressed a kiss to Robyn’s bare shoulder.

Despite the setting, it was an unexpected day of bliss—talking, kissing, and cuddling—that made it hard for Robyn to envision a future, if she was lucky enough to have one, that didn’t have Alice in it. 

When it finally dried up, it really did—like all the moisture had been sucked out of the arena, leaving the soil dusty and cracked and the leaves on the trees withered. 

“They’re probably trying to get a final showdown,” Robyn figured; they always did that when there were only a few tributes left. No one had died during the storms, but they had heard a couple cannons go off earlier. 

“Do you think we still stand a chance?” Alice wondered, adorably worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. 

Robyn brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear—the rest had been braided back, which Robyn had insisted on doing when she found out Alice had never had a friend do that at a sleepover (having never even been to one)—and placed a quick peck on her lips. “There’s only one other tribute out there. It’s two against one. Whoever they are, they hardly stand a chance.”

“You sure?”

“Between your magic and my arrows, absolutely.” She held her hand out. “Ready to end this thing?”

Alice stared at it for a moment, but then took it, interlacing her fingers with Robyn’s. Confidently, she looked up and nodded. “Ready.”

They shared one last, long kiss, and then headed off for whatever lay ahead—together. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

President Adam Gold watched the final scenes of the 99th Hunger Games play out on his personal viewing screen in his quarters. Two tributes were left: the star-crossed lovers from Sherwood, Alice and Robyn. The fact that any tributes from the poorest district had made it to the end was incredible, but apparently, the strength of this pair’s love had carried them this far—and the public was eating it up. 

It made him sick.

Which is why, in the eleventh hour, he forced the gamemaker to renege on his earlier promise to the tributes that a pair from the same district could win. To his credit, Jefferson fought it. “You can’t seriously expect me to tell these-these  _ children  _ that they have to murder the person they love?” The gamemaker rethought his stance, however, when he was reminded of what happened to his less-than-successful predecessors.

But the young lovers weren’t having it. In true tragic fashion, they were ready to commit suicide to avoid being without each other.

He had watched as they clung to each other after making quick work of the only remaining tribute, the girl from Misthaven; her body lay nearby, the arrow in her heart still sticking out. The girl hadn’t stood a chance against the two of them—not with the blonde freezing her in place with her magic, leaving her defenseless against the red-head’s weapon. (Honestly, he was impressed; that was exactly what he would have done.)

Now, they were looking around at the sky, expecting the announcement of their victory to come at any moment. 

The absolute horror and fear that went across their faces when the one-victor-only announcement was made gave Gold a rush of thrill. 

They stared at each other, wide-eyed and anguished, until the one with magic—Alice, right?—shook her head. “I won’t—I won’t do it. You’ll have to kill me, because I can’t.”

“And you think I can?” Dramatically, she threw down her bow and reached for Alice’s hands. “Alice, I...I love you. And I’m not going home without you.”

Alice sniffed, and a tear began to travel down her cheek; goodness, this was maudlin. “I love you, too,” she warbled. “But we’ve got no choice, do we? Only one can win. And either way, we both lose.”

They hugged each other tight, Alice starting to sob into Robyn’s shoulder. “Wait,” Robyn exclaimed, in a scheming tone Gold didn’t like at all. “Maybe that’s it—maybe neither of us win.”

“What? Like, kill each other?”

“Or ourselves.” Robyn stepped aside and pulled her dagger from where she’d kept it on her belt. 

“They wouldn’t have a victor, then, would they?” Alice said, sniffling, but it wasn’t so much a question as an equally conspiratorial statement. Gold was getting nervous, especially when Alice too produced a knife. 

“Nope.” Robyn reached for Alice’s hand again. “At the same time?”

Alice nodded resolutely. “Together.”

They both carefully held their daggers over their own hearts, and were ready to stab themselves with the weapons. It was sickeningly sweet; Gold hated sweet. The grip on the apple he was holding grew stronger.

“I love you, Robyn.”

“I love you, Alice.”

“See you on the other side.”

Gold saw that he wasn’t going to have his way. “Allow it,” he sighed to no one in particular, knowing the gamemaker would hear him. If he had to have both of them, then he’d take that over neither. 

Before the teenagers could go any farther, Sidney’s near-frantic voice rang out in the arena: “Stop, stop! I officially declare the tributes from Sherwood as the winners of the 99th Hunger Games!”

The couple looked at each other in disbelief before dropping their weapons and embracing each other. They shared a passionate kiss before the hovercraft arrived to bring them back to Olympus, but Gold had stopped watching.

His mind was already on the next thing: how this would affect Pomem. Rumors were already reaching his ears of instability brewing in the realms—minor acts of rebellion against Olympus; an act like this might be fuel on the embers, depending on how the citizens took it. 

But more so was the revelation of Alice as one of the witches he’d been waiting for. The prophecy still stood: that the four sorceresses would return, and bring magic back with them. It was funny: magic had brought Pomem together; but without it, the realm was at risk of ceasing to exist. 

That white feather Alice found marked her as one of the four; another was for certain, and another was a possibility. He didn’t have any clues on the last but had been assured she was out there by his predecessors. 

It was annoying having the voices of all the other Dark Ones past in his head, but, as the saying went, all magic came with a price; if that was the one he paid for the power he wielded, both politically and magically (though much less in that capacity), he’d gladly pay it. 

_ Enjoy your time together now, children _ , Gold thought as he smashed the apple against his desk, juice running down his fingers with an odd hiss.  _ No one gets the upper hand on me. This is just beginning. _


	6. Don't you fret my dear; it'll all be over soon / I'll be waiting here for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the chapter where things happen (in the past) with Killian and Eloise. While it's completely consensual, it's still not the greatest of situations (they're both victims, in this scenario). So if you don't want to read that, then I advise you to skip over the flashback at the end.
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading! Only one chapter left...
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Kingdom Come" by the Civil Wars.

Alice felt like she was going to be sick. But at the same time, she didn’t feel much—like all her senses were muted somehow; like she was covered in a see-through blanket. Absentmindedly, she scratched, yet again, at the new bracelet on her arm.

“Stop it,” her mother scolded, swatting her hand away. “You’ll get used to it,” she added, a bit softer.

Alice glanced over at her mum, who was now toying with her own cuff. From the outside, it was beautiful: made of beads woven together in shades of orange that matched Eloise’s hair and, at least at the moment, matched the floral pattern that covered her flowy gown. When Alice was little, she would stare at it in awe, thinking it was merely a beautiful accessory. Now, she knew better.

And god, she understood her mother that much more. Alice’s was equally gorgeous—a sea of blues that mimicked the color of her (and her papa’s) eyes, and nearly blended into the stunning turquoise ball gown she was wearing. She now knew that those beads were made of silicon, and the wires and metal holding it together were all part of the circuitry used to block the release of magic. But it felt like her body was rejecting it, and rightly so; it was literally suppressing a part of her that had been there her whole life. So while her mother’s attention was diverted, she snuck another scratch in.

She nearly jumped when a hand closed over hers. “Easy there,” Robyn whispered, giving her a soft smile. “I’ve got ya.” She squeezed her hand over Alice’s, and even though it didn’t do much to relieve the itch that felt like it was burrowing into her soul, it was soothing nonetheless. 

“Thanks,” she said, returning the tiny grin. Even though the games had ended a few days ago, it felt like they’d barely spent any time together. They’d curled together on the hovercraft, but the trip from the Arena back to Olympus was depressingly short, and they’d been split apart almost immediately and taken to recover separately.

She’d no sooner been hurried into a hospital room than a crude cuff had been slapped on her wrist, immediately stifling her magic. Cruelly, her mother had been the one to fit her with the current, permanent model a day later, while she was still hooked up to all sorts of IV drips that were supposed to heal all her injuries and make up for malnourishment.

Eloise hadn’t said a word when she put it on her, and didn’t linger to talk with her about it. No words were really needed, but Alice couldn’t shake the feeling that her mother had put a pillow over her face at the same time.

(Her papa visited too, later that night when no one else was around; he’d held her as she cried into his shoulder, just like when she was a little girl and her first rabbit died. But this was so much worse than a pet, and she’d been the one to do the killing here and...god, she still couldn’t think about it much.)

That feeling of muted senses hadn’t yet abated, or even thinned, so she’d taken to studying things even harder, focusing on every detail; right now, she was staring at Robyn’s dress, noting the bit of tulle poking out from under the bold red taffeta at the hem, the tiny red gemstones that dotted the full skirt, and the almost fire-like pattern they made over the strapless bodice. Alice’s dress was made in the same pattern, but the colors were a complete contrast. She had to give the dressmakers credit for that bit of coordination. She didn’t know how many times she’d traced over the seams and stones of hers, just trying to make sure she could still feel; amazingly, she hadn’t messed anything up yet.

“Are you girls ready?” Eloise asked, standing by the door of the small room they stood in. They could hear a bit of the hubbub coming from the other side—from the Victor’s Gala. (Because it wasn’t enough that they had been interviewed again on live television after winning; no, they had to be paraded around for the sponsors and other past victors, too. At least the interviews hadn’t had an audience this time.)

Alice wasn’t sure she was ready to talk again, having only barely made it through the interview without stumbling over her sentences. Robyn, blessedly, picked up on that. “Yeah, we are,” she answered for both of them.

“Then go ahead. You’re on.”

Eloise opened the door just in time for them to hear Sidney Glass announce their names from the room beyond. Once again, the large room on the first floor of Tribute Castle had been transformed, now into a glittering ballroom. 

Robyn squeezed her hand and led them out, which was good, because she probably would have ran the other direction without her there. Hopefully no one noticed her delayed reaction, but she quickly plastered on her show grin and waved as Sidney guided them to the dance floor. 

It was an antiquated tradition that the Victor opened the gala with a first dance, usually with the Gamemaker, but since there were two winners, the mortification was theirs to share alone. 

“Let the dance begin!” he announced, and an orchestra started to play somewhere. For a moment, she and Robyn just stared at each other, giggling. But the rhythm was familiar, thankfully, so she guided Robyn’s free hand to her shoulder, placed hers on Robyn’s waist, and whispered “Follow me.”

There were only a couple missteps as they glided around the floor; Robyn was a quick study, and the more they moved, the more the nervous butterflies became a different kind of flutter in her stomach. 

Robyn must have picked up on it, because she slid her hand from Alice’s shoulder to her waist and wrapped it around her back, tugging her closer. “Doing okay?” she whispered in her ear.”

“Yeah,” she murmured back. “It’s just awkward, is all—everyone watching us.”

“I know; it feels like a wedding,” she said, giggling a bit.

Alice didn’t entirely hate that idea, if she was being honest, and blushed a bit at the idea; her mum would scold her for being too young or something but she was still Killian Jones’s daughter, too; she’d inherited his entire sappy side. 

Robyn was blushing a bit, too; it matched the red jewels that dotted her skin. “Just how did you learn to dance like this?” she asked, seeming to want to change the subject.

“My papa taught me,” she replied. Countless hours they had spent dancing in her bedroom at his house; sometimes it was silly, sometimes serious, and it was one of her fondest memories from growing up.

“Think he’ll teach me?” 

“Oh, definitely!” Hopefully, she’d be able to properly introduce them to each other at some point here—not just the hurried thing that had happened in their quarters…gosh, was that really only two weeks ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed in between. 

Blessedly, the music came to an end and the audience applauded. They both sighed in relief, but then—were they supposed to bow or something? They glanced around for a bit, smiling awkwardly, until Eloise ushered them off the floor. 

“God, that was embarrassing,” Robyn blurted once they were off to the side. Alice was thinking the same, but knew better than to complain like that around her mum.

Eloise, though, didn’t shoot daggers as expected; weirdly, she smirked. “Be glad it wasn’t the Gamemaker. I had to dance with one who was close to retirement and could barely stand upright anymore. He may have worn a diaper.”

Both girls cringed. 

“Anyways, now that that’s over, I want to introduce you to some people. Come on.”

‘Some people’ apparently meant half the past victors present. Not all of them were mentors; some just came for the party, and likely didn’t remember much of the introduction. Nearly all were recognizable, though, given that she’d grown up seeing their faces on the television. Some were especially so, like Regina Mills from Phrygia—famous for literally tearing out the hearts of her opponents (and who now wore a purple beaded cuff, the style of which was becoming more and more familiar)—and Emma Nolan from Misthaven, who had probably given Alice the idea of using the trees to her advantage; that was part of how she’d won. 

But it didn’t escape Alice’s notice how Emma’s eyes kept flicking to her cuff, with some odd mix of pity and concern; she didn’t want either of those, thanks, but it did make her wonder if those two things were fated to follow her forever now.

When they finally made the rounds toward the Victors from Atlantica, Alice felt like she could almost relax; her papa was looking exceedingly dapper in an all-black suit with a flattering cut, shirt open like he liked, in stark contrast to Aunt Ariel’s frilly pink gown. But his rigid posture as they approached sent a clear message: they couldn’t act familiar here; not yet. So she drew herself up a little bit more as Eloise made the proper, if entirely unnecessary, introductions.

They exchanged the same pleasantries everyone else had, albeit slightly strained; it was taking every nerve in Alice’s body not to drag them both into giant hugs and shove Robyn at them. That’d have to wait.

“I wonder,” her papa started after conversation had lulled, “You appear to be a fantastic dancer, Miss Gothel. Might I seek your hand for a turn about the floor?” He extended his hand to complete the offer.

She glanced at her mother for approval; she had no idea how this might look, if it was normal or not. It probably wasn’t, but nothing about her and Robyn was anyway, so when Eloise nodded her assent, she probably grabbed Killian’s hand a bit too roughly. He just chuckled, though, and led her to the floor.

As desperate as she was to get wrapped up in her father’s embrace, he kept a polite distance, even if the steps were ones they’d done a thousand times. “I owe you a better dance when we’re home,” he murmured. “Without so many eyes on us.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” she answered. But now that she’d won—now that the danger of Olympus making her a target was over—she’d been wondering… “What if...what if we did tell people? Like, everyone?”

Her papa gave her a sad smile. “I wish we could, Starfish—so much. But if it came out that there’d been an inter-realm dalliance like this...I don’t know what it would do. And your mother has already dealt with her fair share of trouble.” He didn’t say ‘ _ over you _ ,’ but it wasn’t needed; Alice knew that much of her mum’s family died right around the time she was born and no one suspected it was a coincidence.

“I just hate this,” she complained. “I thought winning made life less complicated.”

He chuckled a bit, in the way that she’d figured out meant he was amused by her innocence; normally, she enjoyed making him laugh, but it rang hollow right now. “Darling, my greatest wish for you was that you never had to face this. But know that I’ll always be there for you—that hasn’t changed.”

She sighed. “I know. I love you, papa.”

He gave a half-smile that somehow always meant more than a full one with him. “I love you too, Starfish.”

The song ended much too soon and it would probably draw the wrong kind of attention if they lingered, so he gentlemanly escorted her back to where her mother and Robyn had continued to talk with Ariel—who surreptitiously gave Alice a thumbs up of approval that made her smirk. 

“Have you guys seen the buffet yet?” she asked, then acted shocked when they hadn’t. Really, she just knew that Alice was always hungry and likely assumed she was starved right now—and she was right. “Seriously, Eloise; feed these girls!” she gushed, winking; Alice was going to have to thank her for the reprieve later. 

They said their goodbyes—lingering a bit in her polite handshake with Papa—and finally got to enjoy the delicacies of Olympus. 

Her papa was right: life was going to be more complicated from here on out. But between him, Robyn, her mother, and the other people around her, Alice knew she’d acclimate eventually. 

Also—she discovered the best marmalade she’d ever had on the buffet. That might make it all worth it. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Killian didn’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. The Gala was usually his favorite part of the Games—if he had to have one—but when all he wanted to do was be with his daughter, far from here, having her here but being required to keep his distance was agony. 

Maybe if Milah was still here, it wouldn’t be so bad, but she wasn’t, was she?

At least the bar was, so after the Sherwood group departed, he excused himself from Ariel’s side to get a drink. 

While he was ordering, Jefferson arrived next to him. “That was quite a show at the end, there, Hatter,” Killian said. “Pulled right on my heartstrings.”

“Well, you know, anything for a great story,” the gamemaker replied. “I don’t know if everyone is pleased with the outcome, but it will definitely be remembered.”

“Who doesn’t love a happy ending? I certainly did.”

“Well, of course you would.”

Killian and Jefferson exchanged a long look at his comment. Did he know? Despite the comment, his expression was unreadable; it was probably best if Killian didn’t linger on it, then. 

“Now comes the hard part: topping yourself next year,” he plowed on with a plastered-on smile. “Care to share your secrets?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jefferson laughed, albeit nervously. “But let me remind you that it is a Quarter Quell, and it will be the most memorable yet.”

Killian swallowed, thinking of the last Quell and who was in it, before smirking back. “Can’t wait.” Jefferson smiled in reply, but it almost seemed pained; it certainly wasn’t genuine, which was unusual to see in someone from Olympus—the games were typically a source of sadistic joy. “What, not looking forward to it? You’ve got the most coveted job in all the realms.”

“Yeah, I suppose. I just don’t know how much longer I can do it.” Astonishing; Killian never considered a gamemaker might have a conscience. Jefferson continued, “With any luck, I won’t have to.”

“Retiring already?” He was hardly older than Killian—much too young to call it quits, especially considering his, ah, wizened predecessor. 

“Something like that. I won’t go down without a fight, though.”

The gamemaker then excused himself, leaving Killian slightly confused; something was going on. But he didn’t feel like thinking about it tonight, so instead he started on his drink and began searching for some company again. 

He found Ariel in the crowd, talking with Emma and Graham on the other side of the room and felt his expression darken, brows furrowing. Emma’s betrayal still stung, though the intensity had dulled, especially in comparison to other blows he’d been dealt.

She hadn’t been wrong—he probably would have done something similar, had he been allied with any other team. But he felt too much of a connection with her—and, frankly, respected Graham too much—to have done so this year.

He was just angry and shocked at the initial betrayal, but now that Alice was (relatively) safe and sound, he was a bit calmer about the whole thing. It was still a shit scenario, but not as terrible as he’d originally made it out to be.

And Emma’s friendship—or whatever it was they had—was not something he wanted to lose. Perhaps it was best they found a way to bury the hatchet, even if that was a terrible idiom to use. 

He shotgunned the rest of his drink, leaving the glass on a random table and letting the liquid confidence give strength to his cocky front.

“Not trying to steal my partner, I hope?” Killian said as he strolled up, grinning at Graham, before turning his attention to Emma. “Though I’d be open to a trade if you are,” he added, winking.

Emma rolled her eyes and gripped Graham’s arm tighter. If she was trying to avoid him, she’d have to try harder.

“They were just telling me about their son, Henry,” Ariel said with a sweet smile. “He sounds so sweet. Do you have any pictures of him?”

“Yes!” Emma said, reaching for her clutch, and pulling from it a photo of a boy with brown eyes and a mess of dark hair. Killian could see Emma in the boy’s features, but none of Graham. As if he needed any more confirmation there.

“He’s so handsome!” Ariel gushed. “How old is he?”

“Um, eleven,” Emma replied, somewhat nervously, the smile running away from her face. Eleven. The boy could be reaped next year. Killian said a silent prayer, hoping that wasn’t the plan for next year that Jefferson was talking about. But wouldn’t that be a story: the grandson and son of victors finding himself in the games? No wonder Emma had kept her distance from Olympus.

Sensing a need to lighten the mood, Killian addressed Graham. “You didn’t answer my question: would you like to trade partners? It only has to be for the evening.” Emma just averted her eyes.

“Sure, why not?” Graham answered, not giving Emma a chance to say otherwise. “Shall we?” He offered Ariel his arm and they went off to talk to Archie, an older victor from Arendelle.

Killian faced Emma. Despite his usual swagger, he found himself somewhat nervous. Not quite knowing what else to do, and not wanting to get into what was likely to be a heated conversation out in the open, he asked, “Care to dance?”

“Dance? Really?” She finally made eye contact with him, an amused look of disbelief spread across her features. “Didn’t you already do that tonight?”

“There’s no such thing as dancing too much,” he tossed back; he wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she’d noticed his waltz with Alice. 

Emma snickered. “Okay, but I need another drink first.”

“I won’t argue that. Lead the way.”

At the bar, they ordered two shots of rum. “To the end of the games,” he offered as a toast.

“If only that were true,” Emma replied with a sad smile as she clinked her glass with his and downed the shot. “I sometimes feel as though I haven’t stopped playing.”

That seemed to be the theme of the night. “They certainly have a way of following us, don’t they?”

He watched Emma’s face change as her thoughts drifted elsewhere, and his own would have done the same had he not been momentarily mesmerized by her beauty. Something about the light in the ballroom, paired with that familiar look in her eyes (not to mention the figure she cut in her red cocktail dress) caught him completely off guard. Goodness, it was like he was a teenage boy again. 

He took a breath (apparently, he’d forgotten to) and reached out with his hand for Emma’s, squeezing gently in case she tried to pull back (she did), and smiled. “Come on, you promised me a dance.”

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Killian gently dragged Emma to the floor, if it was possible to be gently dragged. A few couples were out there—older victors who were mainly in town because it was something to do, bored with the monotony of life in their respective Victor’s Villages. Emma could hardly blame them; the only reason she hadn’t been bored stiff by now was that she was too preoccupied with Henry, as her parents were earlier with her. 

Few victors had children, though. Why would you want to risk your child going through that torture? Henry was turning twelve in a few months; the next several years would be torture at Reaping time, and his genealogy wasn’t as lucky as Olympus would think.

Looking at Killian, she was stunned he’d made it through without losing his sanity completely. At least he had a happy ending, even if few people knew it. 

Part of her wanted to ask him about—well, about all of it: how Alice came into being, how they managed to hide it while clearly having a relationship (if they’d even really had one; it was hard to tell based on their stilted interactions now), how he hadn’t lost his mind during every prior reaping—but now wasn’t the time. 

It was probably a good time to apologize, though. Even if, knowing him, it would be a prime opportunity to knock down all her defenses, as he tended to do. However, the rum had calmed her flight instinct, so for now, she was just going to dance.

Out on the floor, Killian placed his left arm around Emma’s waist—she could feel the cool of his hook at the small of her back—and lifted her right hand in his. He began to move in time to the music being played by a small ensemble at one end of the floor. “So you actually know how to do...whatever this is?” Emma asked incredulously. 

“It’s called a waltz,” he replied confidently. “There’s only one rule,” he said, leaning in with an almost whisper, “pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.” 

Emma rolled her eyes, but those stupid butterflies deep down took flight again. Really? She hadn’t felt like that since she was a kid. 

“Follow along, love, and you’ll be fine.”

It took some time, and she did stumble once (Killian caught her in his sure arms, responding cheekily “It’s about bloody time,” which made her groan) but she soon found herself keeping pace with Killian.

Falling into a steady pattern, Killian began making small talk. “You know, most men take your silence as off-putting,” he said, then leaned in. “But I love a challenge.” She had to laugh, both at how sure of himself he was, and at what he was trying to do.

“I think you know by now that doesn’t work on me.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try.”

Either he’d had enough rum that he didn’t care, or he’d already moved past the events of the past week. So it was probably time for her to do the same. “Killian, I’m sorry for how things ended. It wasn’t—”

“It’s done,” he cut her off. “No sense dwelling on it.”

“I know, but I still wanted to apologize, and thank you for all your help.” She hoped her smile sold it (to both him and her).

“It was my pleasure, lass. This was definitely one of the more memorable games in my career, thanks in part to you.”

She arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “I think I had less to do with it than you’re giving me credit for.”

He swallowed. “Aye, that’s fair,” he confirmed, and she didn’t miss his glance across the ballroom toward Alice. “But you definitely added some excitement, in multiple ways.”

Were it not for the rum in her veins, she probably would have had some sort of nervous reaction that would have burst a few lightbulbs; she still couldn’t believe she’d lost it around him—twice—and here of all places. Out of habit, she took a few deep breaths, but there was incredibly nothing to calm. To her surprise, though, Killian ran the brace of his hook up and down her back a couple times in a comforting gesture.

“Don’t worry, love—if I can trust you, you can trust me.” The gentle look in his eyes told her that was true; hell, she already knew it, but in general, it was so much easier to not believe it. (Because then it didn’t hurt as much when it proved to be a lie.)

Killian, though...she wondered if she might be okay. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked. 

“Yeah.”

“Good.” And then he spun her out, startling her into giggles, before pulling her back in. He laughed as she gripped his biceps to regain her balance. “I can see I’m finally winning you over, Nolan,” he said with a smirk.

“You wish,” she teased back, but gods—he wasn’t far. She really hoped that no one noticed how close they were, with her supposed husband still in the room. The Olympus gossip rags could be vicious, even if they were barely seen outside the realm.

He seemed to realize the same thing and sobered a bit, but she could still see the playful twinkle in those baby blues. “It’s a shame you’re taken,” he mused, albeit sarcastically. “We’d make such a gorgeous couple.”

“Do I need to remind you that the tricks you used on the rich old ladies don’t work on me? I know your game now.”

“Perhaps that’s true, but I do have a reputation to uphold.” His cocky demeanor slipped a bit there—as if he didn’t even believe himself, or didn’t care to.

“Was that what Eloise was?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he answered, almost whispering. “That was...a lone encounter.”

“It only takes once,” she replied, knowingly. “So you didn’t love her?”

“Not her.”

They were still dancing, though the complicated steps had eased to a shuffle. She glanced up and looked long and hard at his face, and the furrowed expression it was wearing—a familiar look of pain on his face she’d seen in the mirror far too many times. “What was her name?”

He hesitated a moment, glancing down, before softly replying, “Milah.” Emma vaguely remembered her; a beautiful victor from Atlantica, who had died suddenly a while ago—not long after Killian’s win, if memory served right. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“And you?” he asked. 

Should have known Killian would be reading her, too. “Neal,” Emma said, the name foreign on her lips. As much as he occupied her thoughts, she hadn’t said his name aloud in years. “He died in the games.”

“Is he Henry’s father?”

Emma considered a non-answer, but frankly, they were past that at this point. “Yeah,” she murmured. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Mercifully, the music ended after a few moments, and Emma broke apart from Killian, as if the weight of their conversation was driving a wedge between them. “I-I should go back to Graham.” She stared at his chest, still afraid to look up; at least she could blame it on his always-exposed chest hair.

“Allow me to escort you,” Killian said, offering his left arm and a smile that did little to hide how he was equally affected. Emma took a deep breath, took his arm, and smiled, putting back up the emotional walls she could so easily hide behind. Even though Graham was her best friend, she’d barely let him get through them; so how had Killian broken through so quickly, and so repeatedly?

Ariel and Graham were still chatting with Archie when Emma and Killian found them. “Greetings, Arch!” Killian nearly shouted as they approached, reaching out to shake Archie’s hand. 

The man from Arendelle gingerly took it and lightly shook. “Hello, Killian, Emma,” nodding at each in turn. It was hard to imagine this timid man ever winning the games, but he had somehow pulled it off—being from Arendelle, he would have been exposed to any number of technologies that proved useful in Neverland. He did his best to pass on his knowledge to the tributes he mentored, but had only had limited success; mainly with Belle French, who won a handful of years ago and was likely even more technologically savvy than Archie. She had somehow managed to electrocute a number of tributes during her games, due to some handy wire and a well-timed thunderstorm.

They'd never actually talked—there hadn’t been occasion to—but Emma had always admired Belle from afar. In addition to being highly intelligent, she also seemed incredibly sweet. “Where is Belle? I had hoped to see her tonight,” Emma asked.

“Oh, she c-couldn’t make it,” Archie answered, nervous even for him. “President Gold invited her to join him tonight, to watch the Victors’ interview.” 

Emma was still on Killian’s arm, and felt his whole body go rigid at the mention of the president. His face must have darkened, too, because Ariel asked, “Killian? Are you alright?” He seemed lost in thought for a moment, but quickly snapped out of it. 

“Of course, love; I’m fine. Just worn down from the week. But I promised this fine lady that I would escort her back to her beau.”

Emma knew she should unwrap herself from Killian’s arm, but given what had just passed between them, she was more than a little concerned. He was nearly as agitated as he’d been during the Games.

“Actually,” she said, faking a yawn, “I think I might turn in, but you can stay down here if you want,” she told Graham. He was clearly enjoying the company—and she couldn’t shake the desire to soothe Killian, or at least get him out of the public eye.

“You sure?” Graham asked—but she could read his second meaning: was she sure about trying to help Killian?

“Yeah,” she said confidently, then turned to the man on her arm. “Weren’t you heading back, too?”

He blinked at her dramatically, but then figured out what she was suggesting. “Aye; I still need to pack, I’m afraid. I promise to see your lady back safely,” he assured Graham.

“You better,” Graham threw back, smiling encouragingly. She knew what that look meant—it was the kind he always gave her when he wanted her to try something new. But she was going to ignore that.

They bid Archie farewell, who promptly and absentmindedly wandered off. Ariel pulled Emma into an embrace that Emma didn’t hesitate to return—regardless of whatever was going on between her and Killian, Emma had definitely found a new friend in Ariel. “Take care, Emma! I’ll miss you!” the other woman squealed.

“I’ll miss you, too!” She wasn’t used to such outpouring of emotion, but there didn’t seem to be any other option when it came to Ariel; it was a stark contrast to the polite but friendly handshake exchanged between Killian and Graham.

She told Graham she’d see him later, trying to be a bit less casual than she usually was, and led the way as she and Killian left the room. He relaxed immediately in the hallway, but she’d learned her lesson when it came to discussing major revelations there, and continued to guide him to the elevator.

It was already there, so they didn’t have to wait to step on board. As soon as the door closed, she turned to face him, noting the brooding grimace on his face. “What happened?”

He clenched his jaw. “Now, or then?”

“Either.”

“Milah...also spent a lot of time with Gold,” he slowly explained. “She was his favorite.”

“Oh,” she breathed. The president was not known for playing well with others...or for sharing his toys. “Is that how she…?”

“Yeah.”

It was Emma's turn to say “I’m sorry.”

Killian nodded, all the while staring at the floor. “I’d hate to see another woman face that fate.”

“I get it.”

The elevator dinged, indicating they’d arrived on her floor. Wordlessly, they exited, and found their way to the Misthaven quarter’s entrance.

“Thank you for getting me out of there,” Killian said. 

“You can only put on a brave face for so long,” Emma shrugged. She’d definitely been in that position. “And you’ve had to do that enough lately.”

He scoffed. “Yeah.”

A slightly awkward silence settled over them then. “Well, I should—” she started, gesturing at the door.

“Yes, yeah, you should—early train,” Killian stammered back, finally looking her in the eyes. He offered his right hand to her, continuing, “I...I enjoyed working with you this week. Until next year?”

She glanced at his hand, but it seemed so informal. And there was just enough rum still left in her veins, and just enough of her emotional energy had been spent tonight that she didn’t have any more left to spend thinking about things like propriety or denial.

She stepped forward, into his space, and grabbed the lapels on his jacket. Then she pressed herself forward and found his lips with hers.

He stilled for a moment, but then his hand found its way to her waist and he leaned into it, firm and insistent but gentle and soft. He tilted his head to deepen it, and for a few brief, shared moments, they were the only people in Pomem. Maybe it was just because it had been so long, but she couldn’t remember being kissed like this—reverently and carefully.

The kiss broke apart naturally, but they stayed close, foreheads touching. “That was…” he breathed, his voice wrecked.

“A one-time thing,” she answered, regrettably knowing that it would have to be. 

He nodded against her, then stepped back and took a deep breath, seeming to regain his composure. “Until next year, then. Safe travels, Emma.”

“You too, Killian,” she said with a soft smile that he thankfully returned.

As much as she wanted to watch him walk away, she instead slipped inside their quarters, swiftly shutting the door behind her. But she leaned back against it, breathing heavily.

Had she really just done that? Had she just actually kissed Killian Jones? A man she’d see, at best, once a year?

Yeah, he understood her more than anyone she’d ever known, and yeah, he was charming and smart and strong. And he’d somehow gotten under her skin and slipped behind all her walls.

Well, like she said—one-time thing. She was just getting him out of her system. She’d have the year ahead to cool off, and then they could continue on as friends. Right?

Right.

She sighed, scrubbed a hand down her face, and glanced around at the too-empty suite.

God, she hated the games.

It was definitely time to go home.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Seventeen years ago**

The pain medications in Olympus were something else. Killian felt mostly clear-headed and in control, with just the slightest unnatural euphoria. But he’d made it through the post-Games interview just fine, he thought, so perhaps they weren’t overly strong.

Until he found himself vomiting in a broom closet outside the Victory celebration. His mental state was back on the ground—but the pain at the end of his arm had returned full-force, fire burning in a hand that wasn’t there. (And, irrationally, he was worried about staining the expensive suit he wore.)

“The drugs wore off?” a female voice asked from outside the threshold.

“Aye,” he panted. “Can you get my mentor?”

He heard the woman’s footsteps as she walked away, then a pair returned. “Milah; thank y—ouu,” he started to say as he emerged from the closet, but it wasn’t Milah walking towards him. It was Eloise Gothel, who’d won the Games a couple years ago. Like most Victors-turned-mentors, she was dressed in the style of Olympus, her red hair in a complicated updo and a flowing green gown that somehow managed to hug all her curves. He averted his gaze, though, when he realized his eyes were wandering.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hand to reveal two small, white pills. “They’re not as strong, but better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” he answered, and she tipped them into his palm. He quickly popped them, and washed them down with the glass of water she’d also brought. The effect was nearly immediate as the throbbing dulled and he could breathe again. And then took a few more sips to wash the taste of vomit from his mouth. Just one room over were all kinds of delicacies, and here he was, unable to stomach any of it. How cruel.

“I suppose I should head back in,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward in the presence of a Victor (well, another one—he still had to remind himself that he was one now, too). Especially one like Eloise, who had won in such a cutthroat manner—literally by cutting throats, after immobilizing people with her magic and making use of the poisonous plants in the arena. The thick bracelet on her wrist was likely the only thing holding her powers back now. (It was all a stark contrast to the beautiful visage in front of him; he was having a hard time tamping down his attraction.) “Were you sent out here to find me?”

“I was,” she stated matter-of-factly; the expression on her face was hard to read—possibly intrigued, or possibly annoyed. (Or both.) “But not to return you to the party. Would you like to come with me?”

“Where?”

“Someplace special.” There was genuine amusement in her blue eyes, but he wasn’t sure how sincere her half smile was. Still, he had no reason to turn her down.

“Sure,” he shrugged.

“Follow me.”

She led him down the hallway and around a couple corners to what looked like an office of some sort; he wondered if it belonged to the Gamemaker. Eloise pressed her finger against the keypad and the door slid open. He didn’t know why he hesitated to follow her in, though, until she turned around and beckoned.

Inside was nothing like he’d expected. Much of the Tribute Castle was clean and cold, sharp lines and sterile surfaces. But this room was the exact opposite: dark, warm colors covered everything, and all the furniture was the plushest he’d ever seen. An especially comfortable-looking bed was off to one side and the soft lighting made the space feel even more welcoming. 

“What is this?” he asked on a breath.

“Somewhere to relax,” she replied, falling against a cushion so stuffed he couldn’t tell if it was actually a sofa or merely a giant pillow. “Join me, won’t you?”

It certainly looked enticing—as did the company—so he complied, letting himself collapse next to her. The cushion somehow managed to both support and embrace his body, although he winced a bit at the way his blunted wrist hit it; he was still getting used to that. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

“Aye, I’m fine,” he lied, wanting to impress the slightly older woman. The strap on her dress had slipped a bit, revealing the curve of her bosom. He may have just survived a battle to the death, but he was still technically a young, hormonal man.

“Perhaps you’d like a distraction?” she breathed, shifting closer.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Good.” And then she surged forward, claiming his lips with hers.

A blushing virgin, Killian was not, but that was certainly one of the more enjoyable nights in his memory. He learned a thing or two about how to pleasure both a woman and himself. 

They were laying in the afterglow, sharing slightly awkward smiles and giggles. For the first time since his name had been plucked, he’d finally been able to forget where he was and what was going on around him; if he was reading the slightly starry expression on Eloise’s face correctly, she felt the same. 

It was at that perfect moment of bliss, of course, that he was jarred by the sound of a cough coming from the shadows.

He jolted away from Eloise in shock; she seemed equally surprised, but less confused.

“Oh, don’t stop on my part,” the person called out, and it was easy to tell who the voice belonged to.

“Welcome, Mister Jones,” President Gold said, rising to his feet. “And let me extend my congratulations again.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” Killian answered, but he was utterly confused (both mentally and physically).

“I see you’re getting along well with Miss Gothel.”

“Yeah…” he said, but when he looked to Eloise for guidance, he could no longer read her expression.

“You know, you’re quite the handsome young man,” Gold continued, hobbling forward with his cane. “I’m sure you’ve attracted many admirers over the last few weeks.”

What on earth was the President getting at? And why the bloody hell was he here? Had he...had he  _ watched _ ?

“An attractive young man like you...people would pay a high price to fall into your good graces.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t follow,” Killian finally had to say, trying to sit up while also keep his modesty somewhat intact, tugging the covers over his lap. 

“Eloise, you didn’t tell him?”

“Not yet, sir; I figured it would be best coming from you.” There was just enough defiance in her tone that Killian could tell whatever was going on wasn’t entirely by choice.

“I suppose you’re right,” the President sighed. “Well, Mister Jones, you see, I have many friends who I like to repay for their loyalty and support. And I have access to the rarest, most desired commodity around.”

“What, Victors?”

“Exactly. Particularly the ones, such as yourself and Miss Gothel, who are exceedingly appealing to the eye. And, well, I like to give the very best.”

Killian blinked, stunned. The President couldn’t be insinuating what he thought he was—could he? 

“A night with a Victor covers a lot of ground, both politically and financially. You’re a smart lad; that shouldn’t come as a surprise, should it?”

It didn’t, but that didn’t mean he was any less repulsed. “So you whore out Victors to your benefactors?”

“See, I knew you’d figure it out.”

Eloise, for her part, was looking both sheepish and a bit frightened during their exchange. God, what had she been put through?

“I won’t do it,” Killian said defiantly.

Gold just cackled in reply—a terrifying sound that sent shivers up his spine.

“You have to,” Eloise murmured. “If you don’t, he’ll—he’ll hurt the people you love.” If Killian’s memory served correct, Eloise had a mother and sisters back home; was that how Gold got power over her?

“Then I’m afraid the President’s information is incorrect; I don’t have anyone,” Killian spat out.

“Oh, I have plenty of other ways of making you hurt. It would be a shame if Atlantica’s grain supplies stopped coming in, wouldn’t it? Or if an infestation of dreamshade found its way to, say, Mr. Nemo’s yard?”

That stopped Killian cold; any lingering heat from the previous activities dissipated in an instant. “No,” he breathed. “You wouldn’t.”

“I think you’ll find, Mister Jones, that there’s very little I’m not willing to do.” Gold followed with a sneering, reptilian grin. 

This couldn’t be happening. Victory was supposed to be freedom—freedom from the looming threat of the games and all the shadows they’d cast on his life. Not this...slavery. 

But he’d been in enough fights in his life, even before the Arena, to know when he was outmatched. Gold’s sneer and Eloise’s resigned expression told him enough. 

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

Gold snorted. “Glad you came around; not like you had much choice. Although,” he started, tapped his fingers on his cane in thought. “That does remind me. I’ve considered expanding this venture to the sponsorship side of things, if you were interested.”

No, he wasn’t, but Killian couldn’t help but be curious. “What would that mean?”

“Sponsorship during the games also brings in quite a bit of revenue. But I’ve always wondered just how much more it could take if there were certain other...perks attached. Would you like to help me test my theory?”

Killian swallowed. “Would I be able to choose the sponsors?”

“To some extent, yes. The ones who can afford it.”

It was the best opportunity Killian was going to have in this. He would be little more than a prostitute, but if he could have any level of choice, he’d be an idiot not to take it. “Alright,” he said, an unconfident agreement. 

“It seems we have a deal, then,” Gold replied, almost squealing, then offered Killian his hand, which was gingerly taken. “I’ll give you the full details at the next games. Eloise,” he continued, sharply, “you have another appointment in a half hour. Don’t be late.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows once more, letting the most awkward of silences fall onto the two left. 

Killian didn’t know how long they sat there, not moving. At some point, he shivered; whether it was from the sweat cooling on his body or in reaction to the exchange with Gold was up for debate. But that seemed to jolt Eloise, who finally started to move again; Killian slowly joined her. 

They faced away from each other as they moved about the room, gathering and putting on their clothes from the random places they’d landed. It was almost easy to act like the other person wasn’t there—until it came time for a Killian to button his shirt. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, attempting to do it with his remaining hand—and not having much luck. 

“I’ve got it,” Eloise said quietly, and finished pulling up the side zipper on her dress before coming over. 

He watched her fingers carefully do up the closures, afraid to make eye contact. He didn’t know what he’d find in her gaze—apology? Remorse? Or worse: nothing? Did it matter? She was a victim in all this, too. 

But she spoke up before he could ask. “I’m sorry for luring you here under false pretenses.” That was putting it lightly; he knew she was only doing what she’d been commanded, though. Still, he didn’t respond. “But I just want you to know that you’re the first person I’ve actually wanted to sleep with.” 

With that, she did up the last button on his shirt, placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and turned to leave. 

He waited for the click of the door closing before he moved again, hoping the brief moment of time would be enough to get his racing thoughts in order. That had been the most confusing, exhilarating, horrifying encounter of his...well, he couldn’t say life, or even week, but definitely that day—and hopefully the last such moment in his life. 

He felt used, but by Gold, not Eloise. And he would probably have to get accustomed to that feeling. 

He took one more deep breath before putting on his jacket, only wincing slightly when it brushed his bare stump, and left the room; something told him it would be occupied again soon. Hopefully, he looked presentable; all he wanted to do was go back to the plush bed in Atlantica’s quarters, but he knew he’d be expected back in the gala. They’d probably wondered where he’d gone. 

The sad, knowing smile on Milah’s face when he snuck back into the room told him, though: she knew exactly where he’d been, and why. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇


	7. Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG IT’S THE LAST CHAPTER!! Thank you so much to everyone who has commented on it; I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed it! I don’t exactly have a timeline for the next story yet, but I’ll probably start working on it when I’m done with my CSSNS commitments. And thank you again to the organizers of the Captain Swan Rewrite-A-Thon for giving a great venue to revisit this, and to Optomisticgirl for being an amazing beta. Title is from “Safe and Sound” by Taylor Swift and the Civil Wars. Enjoy!

The trip home was...weird. That was the only way Robyn could describe it. It was the same train, and the same views of Pomem flying by outside, but in reverse—which felt poetically appropriate (or something like that; she wasn’t great at writing).

Because this trip was a complete 180 from the previous: last time, she knew there was a very decent chance she was being carried away to her death; to have escaped that—and lived through everything—definitely carried a sense of relief with it, but she also knew she wasn’t the same person she was a few weeks ago. 

Granted, it was a much better 180 than the one most of the other tributes had taken: leaving home alive and well and heading back in a coffin.

(Could there actually be that many 180s from the same point? She wasn’t great at geometry either.)

(God, she was probably going to have to go back to school, wasn’t she? Ugh, being 16 sucked.)

She knew that a whole different life was waiting for her in Sherwood, but how she was supposed to build it on the foundation of her past was what she hadn’t figured out yet. There was probably a house waiting for her and her mom in Victor's Village—whichever one they wanted, most likely, given that Eloise and Alice were the only other living Victors. She wouldn’t have to go to work in the textile factories or cotton fields like everyone else was expected to, and she didn’t even have to follow her mom’s footsteps into midwifery if she didn’t want to. She’d probably have to become a mentor, once she finished high school, but that was far from a full-time job. 

Hell, she was even nervous about seeing her mom again. As much as she’d felt a pang of jealousy at the fact that Alice had her mother—well, both parents—with her, as stilted as her relationship was with Eloise, and as much as Robyn desperately wanted to fall into her own mom’s hug and never leave, she wasn’t sure it would hold the same comfort it used to. 

She was going to be vaguely poetic again: she was standing on a precipice, but couldn’t see past the edge. 

That was semi-literal; the train was going through mountains, so there was stone on one side and a sheer cliff over forest on the other. The sun was making its slow ascent and Alice was snoring in the bed, feet away. 

Technically, they had their own cars, but neither of them really wanted to be that far from each other; they’d done that enough after the games. They'd spent the last couple days of the ride talking, cuddling, kissing, and getting to know each other in a somewhat normal manner—like people usually do when they're not caught up in a death match. She knew now that Alice's favorite color was light blue, like the spot where the sea meets the sky; that her favorite place was her father's ship; and she had this adorably ticklish spot on her hip, right at the juncture of her thigh bone. (They hadn't just kissed...they were still teenagers, after all.)

And on her end, she’d been able to tell Alice about helping her mom with births when she was growing up and how that made her never want kids; about how her favorite color was orange, like a sunrise; and about the father she’d never met, but grew up in the shadow of. 

“God, I can't imagine not having a papa,” Alice had said. “What happened?”

“He died in that big fire that knocked out Factory 21 when we were babies. He was trying to get other people out when a beam collapsed on him.”

“Oh my god; I'm so sorry. Your poor mum!”

Robyn had to shrug at that. “Well, he and my mom were never formally together, same as your parents. He was actually a widower and had another kid; you know Roland, the groundskeeper?”

“Yes! Oh my god, he has the curliest hair.”

“He's my half brother.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah, he went to live with his mom's relatives after the accident; I was only a couple months old, so I was already with my mom. There was some drama with the settlement money being split between me and Roland, so he and I aren't close at all. All I've got are my mom’s stories, and what other people have said. And apparently my skill with a bow; I guess he was a great shot.”

“Hey, that's a pretty great way to honor him—using that to win the games.”

“I guess.”

The one thing they hadn't managed to talk about at all, though, was what came next—for them, as a couple. Robyn loved Alice, she knew—but she was also a teenager and so much could change. If she had all these other questions about her future, was Alice going to be a constant, or a variable?

(She did okay at science.)

Even though she’d only been around him for a tiny bit, she kind of wished she had Killian to talk to, like Alice would. He seemed like the kind to dispense good fatherly advice.

Or he’d pass judgment on the person who was dating his daughter. Hard to say.

At least she had access to the next best thing: Eloise. To be honest, Robyn was still intimidated by her, even if they were kind of on equal footing now, at least socially. There was just this...aura she gave off, or something, that set Robyn on edge. But if they were going to be part of each other's lives for the foreseeable future, one or both of them would have to get over that.

And this was the last leg of their journey home so she should probably do it sooner rather than later. 

She grabbed a robe and slipped it on over her Olympus-provided pajamas that she had definitely stolen, gave Alice a kiss on the cheek that she didn't notice (and she probably wouldn't be awake for another few hours), and quietly slipped out of the train car to the next one—the club car.

Robyn had figured it’d be a good place to get a bite to eat and wait for Eloise to wake, but to her surprise, her mentor was already there.

“Uh, hi—good morning,” she stammered, afraid to move for some reason. “You’re up early.”

“Actually, you are,” Eloise answered. “I’m kind of surprised after what you two got up to last night.”

It was still pretty dark in the car, which was good because Robyn’s cheeks were probably the color of the hibiscus tea Eloise was drinking.

“I’m not judging; just...consider your volume in the future.” She was smirking; what did that mean? God, she should just turn around now. Or better yet, throw herself off the moving train. But it would be pretty silly to come this far only to die of mortification.

“Take a seat; grab a bite. You won’t get food like this at home.” Eloise gave her a pointed look with her invitation that told Robyn she didn't really have a choice here, so she complied, taking a seat on the other side of the table and reaching for a muffin.

She picked at it while working up the nerve to ask her questions—or even remember what they were—when Eloise spoke up. 

“I get the impression this wasn't just a casual social call,” she said, eyeing Robyn and then taking a sip of tea. “Are you wondering what comes next?”

“Uh—yeah, actually; how did you know?”

“Because I’m a mother, even if I’m not particularly maternal. And because I had that same kind of nervous energy after I won my games.”

Robyn chewed her bite of muffin—was that blueberry green tea flavored? Dang—while deciding where to start. It probably made sense to start with the hardest one. “How...how did you go back to your mom?”

Eloise’s brow furrowed, and she took another long sip of tea. “To be honest, I’m still not sure. My mother was a firm believer in being one with nature, in pacifism; I sometimes wonder if she didn't want me to win at all—if she would have preferred I be killed instead of doing the killing. I could barely look her in the eyes when I got off the train.” 

She paused to take another sip, but a lump was caught in Robyn’s throat—that was exactly how she felt right now. 

“But she shocked me—she just lifted my chin, smiled at me, and pulled me into her arms. Mothers have a large capacity for forgiveness, you know.”

Robyn scoffed. “You haven’t met my mother, though.” To say Zelena West could hold a grudge was putting it lightly; they could only go to certain shops in town because of the petty fights her mom had picked.

“Oh no, I have. Who do you think delivered Alice?”

Robyn’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“Mhmm. I think you were a few months old at the time, and she was pretty desperate to get back to you—but Alice was taking her sweet time.”

“I can see that,” Robyn giggled.

“But she finally made her appearance, and your mum told me that becoming a mother was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Now, personally, I’m not sure I can say the same, but I have to assume your mother still believes that, and is just going to be happy you’re home.”

“But...I'm not the same person I was then. The things I’ve done…”

“She knows, Robyn. Everyone saw it. And she’s still going to love you and be there for you.”

That made Robyn feel a bit better, but an awful question came into her head. And she couldn’t hold it back. “Is that how you feel about Alice?”

Eloise finished her tea, then set the mug down. “I’m terrible at showing it, but yes. Motherhood was never something I wanted, but it got me out of a situation I wasn't happy with. We may not be close—and we’ll never be as close as she is with her father—but I’m still proud of her.”

“Good. You should be.”

Eloise smirked at Robyns matter-of-fact statement. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Because Alice is awesome!” Robyn blurted out. “She’s sweet and funny and kind and amazing and—”

She was cut off by Eloise’s laughter. “Alright, I believe you. I had my doubts there, but you’ve convinced me.”

“What?” Hold on—doubts? “Convinced you of what?”

“That you really love her.”

Robyn was dumbstruck. “You didn't think so before?”

Eloise leveled an unamused look at her. “Robyn. You and I are more similar than you think. You can see strategy beyond your emotions; Alice...can’t. Not as well.”

“You think...I was faking?”

“I wondered.”

That muffin was threatening to come back up.

“I’m glad it’s real though; that makes the future easier.”

“Easier?”

Just then, the door swung open, and a groggy Alice stumbled in. “Oh, there you are,” she said, smiling sleepily; Robyn’s heart skipped a beat, it was so cute.

“Hey,” she said, suddenly shy.

“Good,” was all Eloise could say. “You both probably need to hear this.”

Alice flopped down on the plush seat next to Robyn. “Hear what?”

“How the rest of your lives are going to go.”

Alice had been slathering marmalade on toast, but slowed her roll, her eyes growing wide. “What do you mean?”

“You know this can't end, right?” Eloise asked, pointing a condescending finger between them. “This is who you are now: the Star-Crossed Lovers of Sherwood, defeating all odds to get their happy ending.”

Under the table, Robyn reached for Alice's thigh and squeezed. “But we’re only teenagers. I don't...I don’t think my feelings will change, but...” She made a point to not look at Alice when she said that, scared of what might be on her face at a statement like that.

But, to her surprise, Alice was the one to reply. She sighed, saying “No, she’s right; the games are never over. Whatever happens between us, Olympus is only going to want to see one thing.”

“What, us?”

“Yeah,” Alice said, a bit sadly, breaking Robyns heart. “Why else do you think we’ve had to keep it a secret that I’m Killian Jones’ daughter? There’d be no more privacy ever for my family; and it’d break all sorts of laws.”

“They’d stop caring at some point, right?”

Eloise shook her head. “Look at the Misthaven dynasty.”

Everyone knew about the Nolan family—David and Snow, who won and fell in love; then their daughter Emma, who fell in love with another victor and had a son; god, that kid was doomed. But they were still the focus of a lot of attention during the games, and even more once Snow became the mayor there. They might as well be royalty.

Shit, was that Alice and Robyn now?

“Damn.”

“Yeah,” Alice agreed.

“But what if—what if it doesn't work out?”

Alice was quiet while Eloise answered. “It has to. Unless you want bad things to happen.” Abruptly, she stood then. “If you excuse me; I need to make sure I’m packed before we get home.” And she left an incredibly awkward silence behind her in the car. 

Alice picked up her toast and finally ate it, and Robyn finished her muffin. Alice picked up another piece of bread, and the knife for the marmalade, but that probably wasn't even sharp enough to cut the tension between them. 

She tried anyway though. “Do..do you really not think we’ll make it?” she asked quietly.

“I…” Robyn started, but she really had no idea what to say. “I...want to,” she settled on. “But I’m also only 16. I don't even know what I want to do next week.”

“That’s not the same and you know it,” Alice said through a mouthful of toast. She chewed and swallowed, then continued, “I know we’re young, and I know our lives are going to be crazy from here on out. but one thing I'm certain of is you. And I don't want pity or anything, and I don't want to find out you only feel bad for me or something, or you just did it for the games, and that’s why you like me back. And—ugh!” she yelled, throwing her toast at the table and grabbing at her cuff. 

This wasn't the first time this had happened: anytime Alice got overly emotional, something happened with her magic that caused a painful reaction with the cuff; in a calm moment, she’d explained that her magic was tied to emotion, so it seemed that whenever hers got out of control, its attempts to rein her in ended painfully. 

“Hey, I've got you,” Robyn said quietly, moving closer and pulling Alice into her arms. 

But Alice pushed back. “No; not now,” she barked, then winced. “I'm going—I need my mum. I’ll see you later.” She was up and out of the car faster than Robyn could protest.

Well, fuck. She’d made a mess of that, hadn’t she?

And out of all that, the worst part was watching Alice walk away.

Maybe they needed some space; maybe that would help. She’d try to talk to her when they got home—when things were less tense. 

But her appetite was pretty well gone, so she got up and followed the other two out. She didn't go to Alice’s car, though; she kept going to hers, little used as it was. She probably needed to pack, too, and get dressed and all that. They’d be home in just a few hours.

It was funny; barely an hour ago, she’d been scared about that, and now, all she wanted was her mom.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Killian always hated this part of the games. Not like he really enjoyed any of it, but escorting the bodies of two children to their waiting parents was a burden he loathed carrying.

Ariel knew to avoid him while they were traveling home; that was the only time he really let the emotional toll of the games envelop him. It typically involved him spending some quality alone time with however much of Olympus’s good rum his sticky fingers had nabbed. As a consequence, he usually didn’t remember much of the trip.

He knew they were close to home when the trees flying by his window began to thin and he saw the reflective glimmer of the ocean on the horizon. (Also, he’d finished the last of the rum.) There was still a boozy fog clouding his perception, but the disastrous state of his sleeping car told him that he’d been exceptionally violent toward the sheets and furniture this year.

Which was to be expected, honestly. Other than his own games, and maybe Liam’s, he’d never been put through the wringer as roughly. He prayed to whoever was listening that the games would never be so terrible again. Maybe he could persuade Nemo to come out of retirement for next year so he could stay home; Gold might not like that, but fuck him. 

Gods, even just the thought of the man sent a shiver down Killian’s spine that had nothing to do with the epic hangover he was nursing. When Archie mentioned that Belle had been in the company of the president, it immediately drew his memories back to Milah. She was never far from his thoughts during the games, but the thought of Gold’s attention being directed at another beautiful, unsuspecting young woman—and how it might end for the lass—brought back anger he hadn’t felt in some time. It was a blessing Emma was there and knew to remove him from the situation. 

Finally being able to release all the fear he’d felt for Alice was equally cathartic. And not just during the games: from every reaping prior, from Olympus finding out about her parentage, and all the normal parents’ fears—though some remained, obviously. Watching and helping her navigate the next step of their insane lives was going to be interesting.

And then there was Emma. His fingers drifted to his lips; he was fairly certain he could still feel them tingling from her kiss, even days later. (It might have been the rum, but he liked to imagine otherwise.) It had completely taken him by surprise, yet somehow also hadn’t—like it had been the release they both needed after the days of tension. In his stupor, his mind had taken it even farther—envisioning scenes of passion between them that made his heart (and other parts) stutter. He knew it was all sorts of impolite and improper, but knowing she wasn't actually in love with Graham seemed to give his dreams free rein.

There was definitely something there between them. He couldn’t quite place what, but she stirred something in him that hadn’t reacted in a long time. He wouldn’t dare say his heart—not romantically, at least; as far as he was concerned, that part still belonged to Milah.

But maybe, just maybe, Emma was the one who would finally help him move on from her memory. And that terrified him just as much as losing Milah all over again.

The train slowed down, and he forced himself to pull it together. Making sure he was properly dressed and looking not-too-disheveled, he gathered his things and found Ariel in the windowed caboose.

“Feel better?” she asked, with a look on her face somewhere between concern and amusement.

“Aye, I might make it another year.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” She was definitely trying to get at something. Why was there a sparkle in her eye?

“I doubt there’s much to talk about, love. You likely heard the worst of it.” He had a tendency to do a lot of shouting in the condition he’d been in.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she said with a knowing smirk. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell Emma.”

Bloody hell.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The sun was at its peak, but it struggled to break through the thick canopy of trees. Emma inhaled the strong pine scent; it brought her some temporary relief as she descended the steps from the train platform.

Home. She was home.

“Mom!” Henry’s voice called out to her, and she quickly scanned the small crowd gathered at the station until she found her son’s dark-haired head bobbing towards her. She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face as she dropped her bags and scooped him into a tight hug.

“I missed you,” he said into her shoulder.

“I missed you, too, kid.” She could have stood in her son’s embrace for hours had Graham’s voice not broken through just then.

“What, I’m invisible?” he joked. Henry let go of Emma and raced toward Graham. 

“I missed you, too, Dad.” Graham responded with a warm smile and a strong hug.

Emma wished the moment wouldn’t end, but she became intensely aware of eyes on her. She hesitantly looked up, and met the gaze of Marco, August’s father; Tamara’s family wasn’t far behind him. This was the part she was dreading.

It didn’t help that she’d just had her own reunion with her son right in front of them; how cruel. She nudged Graham with her elbow and said, “Henry, can you go wait with your grandparents? Your dad and I have something to take care of before we go home.” Her son ran off to her parents, who were waiting in the street.

Graham wordlessly grabbed her hand and squeezed; she didn’t have to look at him to know he wasn’t excited about this part, either, but they owed it to the families. 

Marco, painfully, thanked them for doing all they could; he was sincere, but it was hard for Emma to hear that; she’d already spent half the trip home wondering what she could have done better. Not that anyone really stood a chance against the Sherwood girls, but she was her own harshest critic. 

Tamara’s family was thankfully a bit more reserved. Knowing they were angry about it was probably better, since Emma was. She didn't want forgiveness; she wanted to do better. (Though, in reality, she wanted to never have to do this again.)

At least they were there, though. Every time she was here after the games, she flashed back to when Neal—well, his body—came home, and she was the only one to claim it.

Dark Knights were in charge of unloading the caskets, and Emma couldn't stick around for that; that was too much. So she and Graham excused themselves to where her parents were waiting.

“You did great,” her mom said as she hugged her. It didn't make Emma feel any better, but she supposed her mom knew better than anyone how she felt right now.

“And there's always next year,” her dad added, pulling her into his arms and cradling her head like he always had. It didn't matter if she was a full-grown adult with blood on her hands; that always made her feel better. 

With the hellos done, they started the short walk back to Victor’s Village and their side-by-side houses. Just as Emma expected, her mom asked for a full run-down of everything that happened; they may be happily retired, but Snow would never be fully able to pull herself out of the gossip of the games. 

“And the new victors! What are they like?”

“They're sweet,” Graham said; Emma had to hold back a scoff that anyone who won the games could be called that, but it did seem to be the case for Alice.

“Oh, good; they seemed to be. Eloise's daughter seems so different from her—which is probably a good thing. God, I just can't believe they weren't going to let them both win; that was heartbreaking.”

A very belated realization hit Emma: that must have been what Eloise and Jefferson were planning that night in the Game Center, when she and Killian brought the burn medicine. How was she just now seeing that?

(Probably because Killian was clouding her memory. For reasons. Fairly obvious ones.)

“Oh, and Killian! What was it like working with him?” God, her mom’s timing couldn't be more annoyingly perfect, could it? 

“It was great,” Graham answered, looking at her with a sly grin. “He knows what he’s doing, and actually, he and Emma worked great together.”

She promptly elbowed Graham in the side. She’d told him about the kiss—she had to—and he was way too encouraging about the whole thing. 

“Oh really? That’s so wonderful; those relationships are so great to have.” Her mom then rambled on about the people she would ally with over the years, but Emma’s mind stopped paying attention at the word ‘relationship’. Even if it was being used platonically, something in her read more into that.

Regardless of Graham’s reaction, what she’d told Killian was true: it had to be a one-time thing. Even if she’d see him again in a year at the next games. And the ones after that, and so on until she retired. But that wasn’t sustainable—a once-a-year fling? No. There were probably people who did that, but Emma couldn’t. Her heart wasn’t that flexible. 

Unbidden, her mind imagined what it could be like, though: sneaking away for quick encounters, the feeling of that taunting chest hair against her skin...no. It wasn’t gonna happen. But, goddammit, why did he have to have a sweet side? Why did he have to understand her so well?

“Mom, you alright?” Henry asked; she jolted at his voice, and then realized they were home. 

“Yeah, kid; just thinking about stuff.”

“I get it,” he said, in a tone that was far more mature than any 11-year-old had a right to be speaking in. “You had a long couple weeks.”

“Yeah, that's one way to put it,” she agreed. “But I'm glad to be home.”

“I'm glad, too,” he said, with a grin that looked more and more like his father’s every day. 

She shook her head, either to shake away the ghosts of the past or the ones that had been following her since the train pulled out of Olympus.

The only person she needed was Henry. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Twelve years ago**

Neal Cassidy was handsome, charming, sweet—everything a 16-year-old girl would fall for. And Emma had fallen—hard. He was her first kiss, her first love, and he was even polite to her parents, who had initially been a bit wary of the boy who had a reputation as something of a delinquent. 

(But, honestly, that was another part of his charm; Emma had been forced to be the image of grace and class ever since she was born. With Neal, she found a bit of freedom from that imposed burden.)

They were already sweethearts when her name was pulled at 16. He left her with a deep kiss that was part of her motivation to keep going in the Games (that and, you know, not wanting to die). And the first thing she did when she arrived home after winning—at least, in private—was return that kiss with all the passion of someone who had been on death’s doorstep but survived. 

For the next year, they were hardly out of each other’s company, save for her victory tour. The night before the next reaping—before she was expected back in Olympus—she gave herself to him, with no regrets.

“I just want to make sure you won’t forget me over the next few weeks,” she’d told him, winking.

“As if I could I ever,” he assured her.

But then his name was chosen the next day. And now it was her turn to give him a passionate kiss goodbye. (And again on the train...and in Olympus...and right before he left for the games.)

As his mentors, her parents did all they could to keep him alive. They were hoping for a repeat of their own story: both victors, able to go home and have a happily ever after. Emma desperately wanted to help, but there was nothing she could do but watch. 

And there was nothing anyone could do when the knife held by the Oz tribute found Neal’s back, again and again. Emma had watched helplessly from the Tribute Castle as the love of her life was murdered.

She barely remembered what happened after that; it was a good thing she had been trained to put on an act for the cameras since before she could talk. Pomem was a blur outside the train window, realms flashing by as she recounted their last shared moments. And she cried—she cried a lot. Somehow, her parents kept her from dehydrating, but knowing that his lifeless body lay just a few cars away...well, that just got her going again.

When they got home, she retreated to the woods, where they’d spent so many days running, exploring, kissing—all that fun stuff. The one perk of being a victor was that she didn’t really have any other responsibilities, so as long as she came home before dark, people let her be.

At least, until she started to get sick.

And when she realized that certain monthly things hadn’t happened in a while.

The doctor confirmed her fears: she was pregnant. With Neal’s child. (And then spent the rest of the day sobbing into her mother’s shoulder.)

To save face, they said Graham was the father; it gave Olympus another one of the sappy love stories they ate up. But behind closed doors, he promised her he’d be there to help her every step of the way. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she told him. “Think of what you’re giving up.” He’d never be able to be seen so much as giving a friend a kiss on the cheek; actual romance was off the table. (As for Emma...well, she was pretty sure her shot at that died a bloody death in Neverland.)

He looked away, eyes cast down. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he started, “but after seeing what you’ve gone through, and so many others...I don’t think my heart is able to withstand that.”

She didn’t tell him that the only reason she was even still standing was because of the concrete wall that surrounded her broken heart, holding it together.

But he was amazing; he was already one of her best friends, and he ended up being the best partner—and best father—she could have had at her side. He abided all her weird pregnancy cravings, accompanied her to all her physician appointments, even withstood her crazy mood swings.

Mood swings that were often accompanied by sparks of electricity coming out from her hands, surges of power that blew out the light bulbs in their home, and her inadvertent burning of any book she tried to read.

What a way to discover she had magic, huh? It turned out being taught to be calm and collected her whole life had kept it from manifesting while she was in Neverland; but apparently it couldn’t withstand pregnancy hormones. 

It took everything in her to keep that under wraps, too—placing it somewhere under that wall around her heart. Which mostly worked. (Not like she had an option; thankfully, knowing she was doing it to keep her child safe was pretty good motivation.)

When she finally went into labor, she had Graham on one side and her mother on the other. Somehow, the pain of birth still didn’t match the hurt of losing Neal, but it came damn close. 

The lights overhead flickered on that last push (there was no holding it back), and then—then he was there: Henry. A squirming, screaming, pink thing, but when they put him in her arms, she wasn’t sure she’d seen anything more beautiful. God, she wished Neal could have been there to see him.

But she looked to one side and saw her parents (her dad having snuck in), and to the other and saw Graham. Even if Neal was missing, Henry was still surrounded by love—by people who were always going to look out for and protect him.

“I promise you, Henry,” she whispered a while later, when it was just the two of them. “I will do everything I can to give you your best chance in this crazy world.”

And that included anything in her power to keep him away from the Games.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Present day—Olympus**

Jefferson was getting too old for this—and he wasn’t even that old. But these things had a way of weighing on a soul that not even the view from the window of his more-than-comfortable home could lift. (Neither could the glass of whiskey-laced tea he was nursing; at least the bottle was nearby.) His view of the border between Neverland and Olympus was soothing, with its varying types of trees serenely blending together, but also a constant reminder of what he did.

Another year passed, another games down. 18 more deaths on his hands. 18 more mothers having to bury their babies.

_ At least it’s not 19 _ , a foreign positive voice somewhere deep inside told him as he took another sip of his drink, but that was hardly something to celebrate. It was only by the good graces of the President that both kids were able to win; part of him was worried about any repercussions, but the other part didn’t give a damn.

He was too good at his job. He was untouchable. And it drove him mad. (Which was probably why he was drinking alone and had a syringe of zolocybin at the ready; he knew better than to mix drugs and alcohol but again: he didn’t care.)

_ The next one is the last one _ , he reminded himself. It had almost become a mantra, having repeated it to himself countless times over the past few days since the end of the games. He thought of all the letters hidden here in his room, all the plans discussed, all the names on lists; as if on cue, his off-the-grid mobile phone rang, with the name  _ Cora  _ flashing on the screen. Their scheme would finally be put into motion over the next year. They finally had what they needed.

A symbol, something the people could rally behind: hope. Victory after impossible odds.

True love.

When Eloise came to him with her proposition to get both of her tributes out alive, he knew they finally had the last piece of the puzzle, the key to undoing everything.

His associates knew it, too, and the gears that had been slowly turning for years now kicked into high gear. The games may be over, but his job was just picking up.

There was still a long road ahead of them, though, and he needed to decompress. He tossed back the rest of his drink, put his phone on silent, and drew the blinds to his bedroom. Then he practically threw himself on his plush bed and grabbed the syringe; technically, zolocybin was a controlled substance, only to be used by medical professionals—but that didn’t mean it didn’t abound on the recreational drug market.

He popped the cap on it and methodically went over the process of injecting it into his arm, then settled back and waited for the effects to wash over him: first, sleep, then the kind of wild dreams that could only come from psychedelic hallucinogens. He could see why it was addictive, so he only allowed himself this one trip per year, to help him unwind.

Unconsciousness crept up in him quickly and he welcomed it. But even as he drifted off, one thing repeated in his mind:

_ The next one is the last one _ .


End file.
